Songs From a Broken Flower
by mikitta
Summary: A collection of stories about witchers and their lives on the path. This story is on hiatus until things settle down IRL.
1. The Broken Flower

**_Edited to change the dates to be consistent with the Battle of Sodden Hill and the Destruction of Cintra in the books and stories.  
_**

* * *

 _April 5th 1263_

 _So, I was given this journal and some quills and ink as a "tip" last night. I've worked as a whore in Crippled Kate's for six months now and this is the first time a customer has been so kind as to give me something to keep for my own. I never meant to end up as a whore in Novigrad, it's not what I wanted out of life, but after the cobbler's son raped me and then made my shame known to the whole village, my father dragged me out of the house, spit on me and tied me to the back of the wagon. I'll never forget being pelted with rocks, rotten vegetables and road apples as he set off for the spires of the city dragging me behind. It was my fifteenth birthday.  
_

 _It took all day to get here from home and my feet were bloody raw meat by the time he pulled the wagon to a stop and sold me to the madam. I had no more tears left to cry by the time I heard the clink of a few coins in his hands and he cut me loose. The girls and boys here were kind, dressing my feet and helping me. I couldn't walk for the first week._

 _I will always remember the first customer Madam made me wait on. He was ferocious looking, with a horrid scar across the right side of his face. He was a witcher and he terrified me. But Madam, she told me I had to pretend to like anyone who bought a night for services, and I had to pretend not to be frightened of him. The thing is, he was the first since Bryan had … I can't even write about it. Even still so many months later._

 _The witcher's name was Eskel and he was gentle. Maybe he sensed how frightened I was, but he treated me like I was something special and not a prostitute. He treated his swords that way too. I've now seen my fair share of men come and go, and you can always tell how they will treat you by the way they set their swords down before they get their money's worth. Some will just toss them down, in a hurry to loosen their codpiece, stick in their willie and get off on top of me. Others will hurl their weapons to the floor, and I know then I will hurt for days afterward and the bruises and scrapes will take as long to heal. Eskel laid his two swords lovingly down on the bench, followed by his clothes, which he folded neatly, then he made love to me. It wasn't just sex, he actually made love. I wasn't a piece of meat to him and I felt so special._

 _I cried for a long time after he left, but I had to hide my heart. Madam informed me that I had a quota to meet, and if I could do that, I might someday be able to purchase my freedom and choose my own path. Speaking of, there is a customer coming up the stairs. I will write more later._

* * *

 _August 24th 1263_

 _Eskel came to the brothel today and asked for me. That surprised me, but Madam told me later that most men will stick with specific girls over time. It's not like any of them would marry us, but they like routine, I guess._

 _He was every bit as gentle and kind as the first time he lay with me. I will always consider him my first. The others are just business transactions, my body a mere commodity. But this witcher, this mutant that is scorned and spit on did not treat me like that._

 _Men will usually get up and leave when they have had their fill of fun at my expense. They don't talk much and they certainly don't expect me to say anything to them unless it is to fake passion when they are inside me. Eskel asked to stay with me all night. He ASKED. That never happens. And he talked to me. I think it was mostly he wanted to talk to someone. He told me about his latest contract, a bruxa he called her. He hadn't wanted to kill her, he said, because she was sweet in her way. But she had been preying on a village's children and wasn't going to stop. He had been contracted and those kids deserved to live._

 _Madam had Duloris start teaching me massage, so I practiced on him. I think he enjoyed it, at least he groaned when I rubbed and tugged the muscles of his back. Funny thing. Witchers are covered in scars. I guess it's the trade they ply. I found the fresh one from the bruxa at the base of his neck and felt a little sick that she had come so close to taking him away from me._

* * *

 _December 7th, 1263_

 _I haven't seen Eskel in months. Not since August. And I worry about him. Madam said that witchers retreat to their fortresses in the winter because travel is much harder and there aren't as many monsters about. It's like all the land dies in the winter, then when it comes back to life, the witchers do too. I miss him, though._

 _I've a few "regulars" now. There's two Church of the Eternal fire priests who are .. not exactly harsh, but not kind either. They preach to me about my sins while they are ploughing me. I try to just get through it without laughing at them. Then there is the Redanian Infantry officer who likes to talk about his wife in Aen Gavael. He's kind of sweet, and lonely. I don't mind his kind. He treats his swords with a decent amount of respect, but doesn't stay long when he does come in. Then and there is the Witch Hunter. They serve the Church of the Eternal Fire and are known for their cruelty. His name is Conrad Bael and he terrifies me. He is here every Thursday at 7 by the last ringing of the bell. He crashes his swords upon the floor and he always leaves me bloody and bruised._

 _Tomas, one of the boys, said it would be better if I would take the fisstech before he comes. It dulls the pain. But I see him when he's coming off it. He isn't healthy and that drug is what's killing him. He's only seventeen, but he looks like he's thirty. He has a regular from Bael's group too, when they come in together, an old man with a sour face and rotting teeth. We take care of each other every Friday morning and take turns putting cold cloths on each other's faces._

* * *

 _February 6th 1264_

 _There are more soldiers coming in to Novigrad. They say a war is under way and there was a huge battle on Sodden Hill where fourteen sorcerers and sorceresses gave their lives. I wonder what it is like to have the freedom to choose like that. To actually have a life worth laying down in a cause greater than yourself._

 _I cried myself to sleep this morning. It's Friday, after all. HE was more brutal than usual, celebrating a promotion or something. He didn't take off his gloves before he thrashed me across the face, and I know I have bruises between my thighs. He didn't put his swords down this time. He used them on me. How does anyone become so unnatural?_

 _It's when I am in the most pain, I think of my witcher. I daydream that he has fallen in love with me and will ransome me away from this horrible place, take me to his keep and I will be safe ever after. It's just a daydream and, bruises or not, I have to work tonight. The thought makes me want to cry, but I won't. What worth are a prostitute's tears?_

* * *

 _May 3rd 1264_

 _A different witcher came in today. They are rare, but they do come by. This one had a wolf medallion like my Eskel and I asked Madam if I could serve him. There is, of course, no guarantee that any man from a particular fraternity will be like any other man from said fraternity, but there is a chance. It's been three days and the bruises have washed to green. Bael has limited himself to beating me about the body after the last time he left me unconscious for three days. Madam threatened to turn her bully boys on him._

 _This witcher's name was Lambert and he was full of anger and bitterness. He wasn't as careful of his swords as Eskel is, but he wasn't rough with them either. He just wanted some fun in the sack and didn't say much when I insisted on keeping my under shift in place. It hid the bruise on my shoulder and and I think he didn't notice my wincing when he turned me on my back. It doesn't really matter. The only time a whore is damaged goods is when she can't plough._

 _I didn't ask him about Eskel, though they must know each other. Sometimes the other girls and boys will draw the customers out and let them know who of their friends has been visiting their pallets. I haven't done that. Maybe I just feel too ashamed and don't want anyone taking notes on weather I'm a good bargain for the lay._

* * *

 _June 27th 1264_

 _He's here today! And he asked for me! It has been nearly a year since I saw him and I almost cried in relief to know he hadn't got himself killed on a contract somewhere. I can imagine how Madam would taunt me and lecture me not to fall in love. This is just business. But Eskel is different than any of the other men. I'm so nervous! I have to powder my face. I don't want him to notice the shiner a customer gave me last night. I can't very well serve Eskel with a flour sack over my head. I'm used to keeping a short sleeved tunic on now, and my regulars are used to it as well. I've done my best to make it part of the act. Only Beal insists I take it off, because he wants to see my bruised and beaten back. I have scars he put there and he counts each one._

 _Enough. Eskel will be in my room any moment. I won't think about that man when HE's here. I won't think about pain, only about sweet pleasure._

* * *

 _September 24th, 1264_

 _It's Thursday and Bael will be here in the next hour. Madam usually lets me have the day to myself, not making me service anyone else when that man comes in. He has become more and more twisted and vindictive each week. Last week, he brought in a knout and beat my back and sides with it until I vomited. He kept screaming at me to confess. He knew I was a filthy witch. Why else would he keep coming back._

 _Then he used a switch and I vomited again when he was through. There was nothing left inside me, so it was all dry heaves. The scabs from my last beating hadn't yet healed._

 _I'm shaking so much. I'm thinking of taking the fisstech tonight, to drown out the witch hunter and his cruelty. Oh, if I could only escape this place. There is nowhere to run._

* * *

Boots drummed on the floor and the witch hunter opened his eyes to look at them. They didn't have spurs, though they were well made and relatively clean. His jaw hurt. The mutant had cold cocked him soon as he came into the warehouse, empty and abandoned long since when the owner had bought a newer one. The witcher crouched down and just looked at him with his evil, cat-like eyes. The man's face was horrible with his scar bisecting it top to bottom. Bael didn't know what was worse. The scar or the eyes that were cold and impersonal.

He was hauled up and thrown into a chair and the witcher started to beat him then. His fist pummeled and pummeled until Bael's nose was a mass of raw meat in the middle of his face, his lips were split open. He had long since spit out all his front teeth. A round house took him by surprise and when he woke up again, he was hoisted by his hands from a beam, his clothing in a ragged pile underneath him. His feet swung just above the floor.

The witcher took Bael's knout, then, and the witch hunter started to shake in earnest. He begged. He pleaded for his life. He cried and threw himself on the mutant's mercy all to no avail. Then, in desperation, he invoked his wife and children and whined that they should not be left without a husband and father.

The first slice of the knout across his back made him gasp. The second made him scream. After the fifteenth he couldn't scream any more. He could only moan. Each cut with the knout was met with a moan as his face dripped blood. The witcher never said a word. Never had said a word from the start of this nightmare.

The man had taken his time with the whipping. Bael had lost track of how long. He was hanging limp and shivering as the cold rays of first light trickled into the abandoned warehouse, the muscles in his chest and shoulders were on fire.

He watched the witcher pull out Bael's witch hunter broad sword. That blade he had oiled and sharpened for hours. He heard the boots pacing on the rotten floor again and felt the man come up behind him. Then he felt the cold steel of his blade kiss him between the cheeks and grunted as the witcher rammed it to the hilt into his rectum and twisted it twice, first one way, then another.

Then the booted footsteps melted away and it took a very, very long time for Conrad Bael to die in the abandoned warehouse.

The owner of the boots mounted a piebald gelding and if someone would have followed him, they would have found themselves at a pauper's graveyard on the outskirts of the Bits, outside the walls of Novigrad. They would have seen him arguing with a friar, pointing to a shrouded remains that was piled with others and ready for the mass grave. They would have seen coin change hands and the friar shake his head while he pulled the body from the pile and laid it in a wooden box. They would have witnessed the stern, terrible man lay a book gently in the box with body and then stand with his arms crossed, scowling with his terrible face, while the friar directed a stout boy to shovel dirt over the box. If someone would have watched till the friar and the boy had left, they would have seen the man put a hand to the mound of dirt covering the fresh grave and clench it in a fist before he mounted his horse and rode away.


	2. Quoth The Witcher

_What happens when a book of poetry slips through time and space to land on Master Dandelion's dressing table? Never one to eschew inspiration (or even downright plagiarism) the bard re-envisions Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem, The Raven._

* * *

 **The Witcher**

 _By Master Dandelion_

Once upon a midnight dreary, while he pondered, pale and weary,

His white head bent o're a curious volume of forgotten lore—

Cat eyes he closed, meditating, suddenly there came a grating,

As of wraiths screaming, raving, clawing at the chamber door.

"'Tis a strigga," he muttered, "tapping at that chamber door—

Ever this and something more." 

Distinctly did he dismember, evil things in bleak December;

As each separate dying ember wrought those ghouls upon the floor.

Slowly swords were oiled then waiting;—vainly he had sought to borrow

From those books lore for the morrow —lore the wraith would follow —

For the blighted hideous maiden whom the peasants named Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each bloodstained curtain

Thrilled him—filled him with fantastic tremors often felt before;

So that now, to still the creaking of his armor, he stood repeating

"'Come you wraith entreating entrance at that chamber door—

You loathsome specter entreating entrance at the chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently his soul grew stronger; meditating then no longer,

"Ghost" said he, "or specter, truly your existence I abhor;

But the fact is I was waiting, and so subtly you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here he opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long he stood there wondering, angering,

Growling, grating threats no mortal ever dared to scream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all those potions in him burning,

Soon again he heard that tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said he, "surely that is something at the window lattice;

Let me see, then, what the threat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my sword now be ready and this mystery explore;—

'Tis the a ghoul and nothing more!" 

Open here he flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above the chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above that chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling his grim fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," he said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 

Much he marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing that bird above the chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above that chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out-pour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till the witcher scarcely muttered "Other fiends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as all foes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said he, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore'." 

But the Raven still beguiling the witcher into smiling,

Straight he wheeled a pirouette in front of bird, with silvered sword;

Then, upon his back leg sinking, he betook himself to linking

Fancy foot work, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This he growled engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into his witcher's core;

This and more he stalked divining, with his eyes shifting, shining

On the dusty air drafts floating that the moon-light gloated o'er,

But whose dust motes lining with the moon-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then, he felt, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by bedlam whose foot-falls shuffled on the ruined floor.

"Wretch," he cried, "thy greed hath lent thee—by these ghouls it hath sent thee

Ready sword and oriole for the entrance of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this putrid potion and engage this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said he, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether demon sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there gold in plenty?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said he, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that wraith that bends above us—by that scraping I abhor—

Tell this witcher, anger raging, if, within the distant chamber,

He shall fight a cursed maiden whom the peasants name Lenore—

Fight a rare and putrid maiden whom the peasants name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" he shrieked, upstarting—

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy beak hath spoken!

Leave my vigil here unbroken!—quit the bust above that door!

Take thy tail from out my presence, and take thy form from off that door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, STILL is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above that chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the moon-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And the witcher from out that shadow that stalks quickly fleetly floating o're the floor

Shall be patient —nevermore!


	3. A Promise of Spring

Birds swoop through the air, calling to one another. It is spring and they have returned from wherever it is they go. I hold my face to the warm sun, reveling in the glorious day. Mama has said I should watch my complexion as no man will want to marry a woman with freckles, and the sunshine brings them out on my nose every summer. My brown hair soaks up the sunshine and has acquired a golden tone already. Papa says it suits my freckles and green eyes. Even if no men want a freckle faced woman, I don't care, because it is such a lovely day and what are a few freckles compared to this happiness?

My parents are merchants, shopkeepers in this little town of Ban Marrel. Most people don't like Velen, but I call it home. I love the meadows and forests. Everything is so alive and I want to be as free as the birds that dance about in the air. But I should be helping ma and pa with the stall today instead of playing vagrant and running wild in the wilderness. I sigh, my stolen hour is up. If I linger here any longer, I risk a hiding by my pa, so I turn my feet toward home. I'm not terribly far from our little hamlet.

I start getting anxious the closer I get, though. I see smoke rising into the air, more than there should be, and hear the faint cries of the villagers. My feet fly over the rough ground as I run toward the screams and the smoke. I come over the last rise to see my home under attack and fear is like ash in my throat. My home is overrun by Black'uns, Nilfgaardian troops. I can't tear my eyes away as men are rounded up and murdered. The women are dragged to the ground and held in place while the soldiers rape them. My ears are full of their screams. I hope my little brothers have been able to hide and I am ashamed that I will not move from my spot to go look for them. I am too afraid.

Maybe that is why I don't hear the step of the horse behind me or the creak of leather and metal as the rider dismounts. I am so horrifyingly engrossed in the drama playing out before me that I am insensate to all else. I have fallen to my knees, small pebbles are pressing into the flesh of my legs and I realize I am crying as the wind cools my face with the smell of death.

A sudden hand at my arm yanks me upright and spins me around to face the largest man I have ever seen. He is bald, with a "V" shaped scar on his scalp, and his brows crash over his yellow, cat-like, eyes. He towers over me and I discover new heights of terror as I gaze into his face. He is looking toward the violence in the village and curses colorfully in a low, soft voice. I am surprised he doesn't sound like a bear or a monster. I almost laugh because I find his voice pleasant, but I must be a little mad at this point. He pushes me toward his horse and throws me into the saddle, then mounts behind me. I could not escape if I wanted to. He turns the horse away from what is left of Ban Marrel and we ride swiftly eastward, toward the mountains.

I try to twist in the saddle, to peer around him at the receding sight of my ruined home, but the man grunts at me and won't let me move. I begin to cry again, tears pouring down my face and wetting his arms as he holds the reins. I soak the horse's mane too as he has urges the mount to a gallop toward the cover of heavy woodland. As we rock atop the flying horse, he hisses in my ear to shut up and stop my caterwauling. We make the treeline and duck under the dark canopy as a company of Black'uns appear behind us. I'm not sure they are following us as they don't seem to be trying to keep up, but I choke on my sobs and do my best to stay quiet. My hands are wrapped in the mane in front of me and I'm pressed painfully forward by the man's heavy weight.

Soon, we slow, picking our way through thick undergrowth. The trees darken the hillside with their mass of leaves, but the growth isn't that old, the trunks of most of the trees are only about as thick as my companion's thigh. I think we have ridden for about an hour when we finally stop and he slides off the horse, then reaches up and pulls me down and sets me on my feet. He stalks off from me and stands glaring into the shadows, his arms crossed and his back to me. I slump against the bole of a tree and hug myself as I slip to the ground. I have begun to feel numb. I can barely comprehend that everyone I've ever cared about is likely dead, or will be before the sun rises tomorrow morning. I haven't yet decided if I am grateful for being saved from their fate or resentful that I haven't been allowed to die alongside my family.

We stay there only a short time before the man barks at me to get up. I obey because I am afraid of him. He is a witcher, I finally realize, noticing the two swords over his shoulder and understanding then what I saw when I looked in his eyes. My da used to tell us terrible stories of mutants and monsters on winter nights, threatening my brothers with being given to the witchers if they didn't behave. I choke down an hysterical laugh as I realize the irony of my position. And he asks me what's so funny. I can only shake my head as I turn into the withers of his destrier and breath in the calming scent of horse.

"What's your name." His voice is a purr at my shoulder and I jump, not expecting him to be so close. It unsettles me, though not in the way I had expected.

"Tessa. My name is Tessa." I say, swallowing against a sudden dryness in my throat. He has wrapped a lock of my golden brown hair around his index finger. I wonder if he can hear my heart beating rapidly in my chest. It sounds as loud as a drum in my own ears. I raise my eyes to his, unsure what he wants.

His eyes glitter like rocks struck gold by the sun in a clear stream. "I saved your ass back there and I don't work for free, Tessa. I'm a witcher. Can't just start giving out charity."

My lower lip starts to tremble. "I have nothing to give you in exchange for my life." I plead. _'Almost nothing.'_ His thumb traces across my lower lip and he is sneering at me. I feel hot and cold all at once and the heat seems to pool low in my belly as my breath comes in short gasps. His lips are just above mine and I can taste his breath. It is hot and exotic. I feel like I can't get enough air in my lungs.

His words are the barest whisper, "Think about it while we ride." Then his lips come down on mine. It is my first kiss and my hands creep up to grasp his armor. I feel strangely disconnected from my knees and I'm not sure I can stand on my own. His tongue runs along the seam of my lips and I gasp, giving him access to my mouth. I am lost in sensation as he teaches me what a kiss is. The witcher withdraws from me, holding me up because my legs don't seem to want to work properly. He chuckles low and knowingly, stepping back enough to give me air, grabs me around the waist and throws me back into his saddle, then mounts behind me. He holds the reins in his left hand while his right hand holds me against him. I can feel every inch of him pressed against my back, and I can't seem to get comfortable.

"Stop fidgeting." He purrs into my ear as his grip on my waist tightens.

We ride for another hour and I pluck up my courage. Taking a breath I ask, "What's your name?"

"Took you long enough, sweetheart. I'm Letho." The big man's chuckle stirs the hair on top of my head.

The sun has started to set by the time we reach an old hunter's cabin and Letho brings the horse to a halt. He slides off his war horse then holds his hands to help me down. My skirt rucks up to my thighs as my body slides against his on the way to ground.

"Gather firewood while I take care of my horse." Letho commands me once he lets me go. "Don't go too far, though. No telling what's in these woods. Keep the cabin in sight." He turns to strip tack and saddle from the large stallion. I wander toward the edge of the clearing, looking for fallen branches we will use to feed a fire for the night. There is abundant deadfall surrounding us and it doesn't take me long to collect a respectable pile of sticks, some as thick as my wrist. There are bigger pieces piled beside my collection. Letho must be bringing in some of the smaller trees. I take an armful of wood into the cabin and lay it on the floor. The hearth needs swept before we kindle a fire, and it would not surprise me if the chimney needs to be cleared of bird nests. I grab a twig broom reclining in a corner and set to work sweeping up, unsurprised when I heard the sound of an axe on wood outside.

I have just finished sweeping and laying the beginnings of a fire in the grate when the witcher comes into the cabin and drops some larger, split logs. He takes a look up the chimney and seems satisfied because he does something with his right hand and the wood bursts into flame. I am startled and step back, a hand to my heart. He says nothing, just feeds the fire till we have a cheery blaze lighting the small, one room cabin. There are some pots and pans on a small shelf and a covered bucket sitting next to them. I take the bucket, intent on filling it with water from the stream not far off from the clearing. When I return with the bucket full of water, Letho has pulled a pouch with wheat in it out of his saddlebags, along with some dried meat. I get a pot of water set over the fire, adding in the wheat and meat. We will eat reasonably well tonight.

The sun has set and Letho put a bar across the door after I came in with the water. He now sits in his shirt sleeves, brooding in front of the fire on the only chair in the cabin. I serve him some of the grain and meat and quietly retreat to the bed against the far wall. The last thing I want to do is remind him of his challenge that I find a way to pay him back so I stay very quiet. I may be young, this is only my fifteenth summer, but I am not ignorant. Girls my age are often given as brides. My mother explained to me what would be expected of a wife when my father had started seeking a groom to marry me. Tears come to my eyes as I think of that broken dream. My father is certainly dead and if my mother isn't yet, she is enduring an unspeakable hell at the hands of those soldiers. I hold out little hope that my brothers have escaped.

I get up and clean up our supper mess to keep myself occupied. I don't want to think right now. If I remember the attack on my village, if I remember seeing the men raping and pillaging, I am not sure I will retain my sanity. My pottering disturbs Letho and he stalls me with a hand on my wrist. When I jump at his touch, his lips twitch as if he is about to smile, or scowl. It could go either way. Slowly he reels me in to stand between his knees. He is nearly as tall seated as I am standing, I notice, when he puts a finger under my chin.

"Have you thought what you're gonna do to pay me back?" His quiet, rolling purr resonates within me, shaking all my bones like the wind shakes the spring trees.

"I have nothing I can give you." I shake my head in denial and close my eyes, refusing to give in to what he wants. I won't sell my soul or my body to this witcher.

To my surprise he laughs then and lets me go before hauling to his feet. His hand is gentle on my jaw as he bends down to meet my eyes.

"You owe me your first born child, then. I know some decent folks, owe me a few favors, you'll go to them. I'll be by from time to time and when you marry, when you quicken, I'll know." The big man trails a finger down my cheek before speaking again. "Do you agree?" Dumbly I nod and wonder what kind of devil's bargain I have made. "Go to bed, get some sleep. We ride out early."

He returns to sit before the fire and I obey, too afraid to do otherwise, falling asleep to dream of the what ifs.

* * *

Morning comes before I am ready for it and Letho wakes me with a rough shake. The sun hasn't yet crested the horizon and the air is laced with the last of the year's frost dripping off the grass. Once again, he places me in front of him on the saddle and we walk the horse toward the other side of the forest, avoiding well marked paths. Letho seems on heightened alert as we travel. I feel the tension in his body as the day progresses. At one point, he halts the horse for a full three minutes while he presses me tightly into his chest. When I try to ask him what is going on, he silences me with a grunt and glare. Finally we start moving again, but he doesn't loosen his grip on me.

Before the horse has taken three steps, rapid movement in the treetops has the animal dancing on its tiptoes. Fifteen men and women, elves dressed in rag tag armor, hurtle down ropes to land around us, glaring and hissing in the elder speech. I shiver and press back against my companion, fearing for my life.

A very tall elf strides forward. He is more muscular than I had expected an Aen Seidhe to be. His hair is a dirty blond, braids falling from his temples as the rest of the long mass hangs down his back to brush his elbows. His grey eyes are full spiteful hatred. I shiver when his gaze falls on me with a crafty gleam.

"What are you doing here, _Dh'oine_?" The elf's voice is a rich baritone, but full of spite and fury.

"Just passing through. Don't want no trouble." Purrs Letho. His words are devoid of emotion and the hand that had pressed me into him was now held up in a non threatening gesture.

"That's what your kind always says, and then there's all sorts of trouble." He spits on the ground and sneers at us, an expression entirely devoid of humor. "Give me the girl and you can go on your way, _vatt'ghern_."

Letho sneers back at the elf and says, "That ain't happening. Don't want no bloodshed, but not gonna let you dictate terms here."

"Don't let it be said Dahnaecht Eogan isn't fair." Says the elf, holding his hands out to his side as his sneer turns into something far more sinister. "You beat me in unarmed combat and I let you both go. I beat you and you leave the girl here and go on your way."

"What assurance do I have your commando won't wade in if things go bad for you?" Letho asks, but I can tell he is going to take Dahnaecht's challenge regardless of the elf's answer. The big man steps out of the saddle, leaving me there as a tall, dark haired elf holds the destrier's bridle. This man glares at me with hatred pouring out of his green eyes. The twist of his scowl tells more than words what he would like to do to me. I hug myself and look away. Somehow, these Aen Seidhe scare me more than Letho or the Black Ones ever did.

Dahnaecht yells so all the Seidhe can hear him. _"Bloedde d'yaebl vatt'ghern esse'me,mire'yn an'baeg beanna. Me,ymladda, zvaere. Faem'amach é."_ The elves back away, making a ring around him.

Letho takes off his swords and hands them to me, along with his gambeson. I see the blond elf has also stripped and stands shirtless. "Take care of those for me, Tess." Then he enters the ring

They circle each other, testing for one another's weaknesses. Dahnaecht moves first, darting in to land an open handed slap on Letho's chest before he spins away, laughing. The witcher doesn't react, just keeps his elbows tucked and his hands up. His shoulders are relaxed and he is surprisingly light on his feet for all his bulk. I think his best strategy would be to get in close to the elf and use his weight, otherwise Dahnaecht will tire him out. They get down to the serious fighting after a few more false starts and I begin to worry I will be left with the scoia'tael. Except for the combatants, everyone present is silent.

In a human settlement, such a fight would spur loud comments as people called encouragement to their champions. These elves look on in burning silence, their faces masks hiding their thoughts. At one point, when Dahnaecht deals a particularly brutal chain of open handed blows to the witcher, the Seidhe holding the horse turns to me and says "Look at this stupidity, _dh'oine_. They fight over you like dogs over a bitch in heat." He spits on the ground and eyes me in disgust. "When Dahnaecht is done with you, he'll give you to the rest of us to use. Do you like that thought _bean'salach dh'oine_? _Feicfidh céachta'mé yn'crua._ " Then he grins horribly at me as he puts his hand on my leg under my skirt.

An elven woman looks over at us and spits, _"Iorveth, eid'adaen wedd'beann arsaoir'ans!"_ I do not know the elder speech, but I recognize that first word as a name I've heard before, when the men of my village would talk about the squirrels. Iorveth scowls at the she-elf and slowly moves his hand down my leg, turning his head to make eye contact with me as he does it, before he turns away. I am shaking and sick, knowing what awaits should Letho fail.

My attention returns to the fight and it would seem Letho has gotten in some punishing strikes. The elf's face is split below his right eye and his nose is dripping blood over his swollen lower lip. A spreading bruise covers Letho's chin and his left eye is swelling shut, proving Dahnaecht's taunts weren't empty. The big witcher is breathing steady, though and he seems to allow the elf in close, to score swift hard strikes on his massive body, only to receive devastating blows to his opponent. The fight drags for some time till both men are pumping like bellows, sucking in air through their bloody faces, glaring death at each other.

A sudden, massive blow from the witcher lays the elf out on his back. Dahnaecht struggles to get up. He finally rises to his knees, spitting his teeth into the dirt as Letho stands with his hands still held deffensively before him.

" _A'baeth aep arthe, vatt'ghern."_ Roars Dahnaecht as he lunges for one of the Seidhe observing from the ring, and drawing the elf's sword. He turns back to Letho and rains several swift strikes in succession, each dodged but the final one, which scores a red line along the witcher's ribs. The huge man rolls out of the way of another killing blow, pushing his left hand forward. A stream of fire flows from his fingers, roasting the commando leader's face in a blast of flames. While the elf screams, batting at his hair, Letho charges toward the horse, pushing Iorveth away and grabbing one of the swords I still hold. Twirling the blade in deadly arcs, his lips spread in the most hideous grin I've ever seen.

"Let's finish this then, you fucking elf. Show me how you dance!" The grinding purr of the witcher's voice makes my hair stand up on end as I realize how deadly he is.

The men circle each other, the fight has suddenly become a contest of life and death. I see archers in the trees training their loaded bows on Letho and my blood runs cold. Iorveth looks up, then snarls at them in a guttural roar. _"Faem'amach é! Sìolaeth saehd'an!"_. The Seidhe obey Iorveth, lowering their bows, and we watch the rest of the fight in a tense sort of horror.

Both combatants are versed swordsmen, trading blows that strike sparks in the air as they whirl and dance around each other. I lean forward in the saddle and Iorveth has to grip the bridle tighter as the horse prances under me.

"Sit still, _dh'oine_." He growls at me, intent on the fight now, his face finally showing something other than disgust and contempt.

More blows are traded, the elf striking with a strong vertical slash to the witcher's belly. At the last moment, almost too fast to follow, Letho leaps over the flashing blade and pirouettes behind Dahnaecht, bringing his blade down across the elf's shoulder, splitting his body like a piece of meat. What is left of him staggers, an unhinged look on his face as he laughs before falling to the ground, his blood spreading in a great pool around his lifeless body. Letho staggers back, bringing his sword up, not sure what the Seidhe will do.

Iorveth barks at the she-elf close to him who takes the bridle holding the horse in place as the green eyed man saunters toward the big witcher.

"Put your sword away, _dh'oine_. We're as good as our word. You and your _bean'salach_ are free to go. We might not be so forbearing if we find you again." He turns and looks at me when he speaks the last, and the look in his eye makes me shiver. At an order from Iorveth, the elves melt away, leaving the witcher and I seemingly alone in the clearing. He is wounded all over and will gain new scars to add to his copious collection. He struggles to walk in a steady stride, reaching for the flap of a saddle bag. Letho gathers himself and drinks down the contents of a small vial. A count of four heartbeats pass and then his veins stand out dark and embossed on his skin as the potion takes effect. The lacerations all over his body seem to stop bleeding and his strength returns. I wordlessly hand him his shirt and gambeson, and then his sword and two sheaths, which he straps to his back. He wipes his bloody sword down with a rag he lets fall to the forest floor, sheathing the blade as he leaps into the saddle behind me.

"Let's get out of here." He says in my ear as he _tsks_ to the horse. We finally break free of the forest after another thirty minutes of travel. The rest of our journey is uneventful and we come to a small hamlet just south of Brugge, an hour before sunset. We make for a large house, home of the aelderman, who comes out to greet us, watching us warily, nervous at the presence of the witcher.

"What do you want, Letho of Gulet." Says the village elder, crossing his arms across his chest.

"It's time you pay up, Dannet. You have what I demanded?" Letho's voice is emotionless, a low drawl as he stares down the man before us.

"Some, aye, but not all." The man looks at the toe of his boot.

Letho sneers, "I was hoping you would say that." He says as he slides from the saddle then pulls me down beside him. "I have a proposition for you …."

* * *

Seven years have passed since the witcher brought me here. He negotiated with Dannet, the aelderman, to take me in as partial compensation coupled with a gold payment in crowns from some contract in the past. It seems so long ago now and the years have flown by. I spent several years in the aelderman's household before a man came to court me. Brant and I have been married for two years now and anticipating the birth of our first child. I have told him what I owe to Letho and my husband doesn't like it. Of course he doesn't like it. Who would? Raise a child till they are five or six years of age only to hand them to a witcher? I comfort Brant with the sure fact I have seen no sign of the imposing man's return in all the time I have lived here.

Today the birds swoop through the air, calling to one another. It is spring and they have returned from wherever it is they go. I hold my face to the warm sun, reveling in the glorious day. My hand drifts to my ever expanding waistline. The wise woman has said I am carrying twins, and I certainly feel like it sometimes, like now when the babes kick me in two places at once. I am still three months from their birth, but I am huge. Brant says he loves me like this and I suspect we will have more children after this pair is born.

It is time for me to return to the village. My stolen hour is up and it is time make lunch for my hard working husband. He loves my freckles along with my cooking, and I laugh at a memory of my mother when I think of it. Suddenly, I hear the creak of leather and the step of a horse behind me. I turn and feel the blood drain from my face. Letho stands at the edge of the field next to his huge destrier. I am frozen in place as he approaches. My heart flutters in fear when he stops in front of me, the reins of his horse dangling in his hand. He is so close I can smell the sunshine and leather on him. He lays a surprisingly gentle hand on my bulging belly, feeling the twins kick just as surely as I do. He smiles, one of real pleasure.

"Remember what you owe me." He purrs, then he leans in and kisses me once on the lips, before stepping back. For a moment, he holds my eyes with his own, golden and glittering in the sun, under a strong, hooded brow. I watch as he steps back, mounts his horse and rides away and I cover my children with a protective hand. It's time to go home.

* * *

" _ **Bloedde d'yaebl vatt'ghern esse'me,mire'yn an'baeg beanna. Me,ymladda, zvaere. Faem'amach é" -**_ The bloody witcher is mine, and so is his woman. I swear it. Stay out of it.

" **bean'salach dh'oine"** \- stinking human woman **  
**  
 _"_ _ **Feicfidh céachta'mé yn'crua"**_ **-** I'll plough you hard

" _ **Iorveth, Eid'adaen wedd'beann arsaoir'ans"**_ \- Iorveth, leave the little girl alone for now.

" _ **A'baeth aep arthe, vatt'ghern"**_ \- Kiss my ass, witcher

 _ **"Faem'amach é! Sìolath saehd'an!"**_ \- Stay out of it! lower your arrows!


	4. Silent Is The Day

**The first two times I played through the quest "Where The Cat and The Wolf Play", I killed Gaetan. The last time I played through it, I let him live. For such a brief appearance, he is a character that stuck with me because the choice to be his judge,jury and executioner – or not – was tough. He is one of two Cat school witchers you can choose to save or kill, the other being Jad Karadin. I started Writing "Silent" a couple of months ago and it needed an interesting protagonist. Sure, I could have put in any random witcher I made up, but Gaetan had some special and fresh pathos that fit well in my story. I hope you enjoy it. As always, the credit goes to Andrezje Sapkowski and CD Projekt Red for this world and the people in it.**

* * *

Golden rays of morning sun poured down on the little girl as she endured the lashing her father heaped on her small back. Ebbie was only four, but she was expected to carry the full milk pail to the house without spilling a drop. She had been doing so well until reaching the halfway point when the old tomcat flopped down right in her path. Milk had gone everywhere to the cat's delight and the child's grief.

"Ye watch yer step, girl. Dinna be gatherin' wool when ye take the milk te yer mum!" The switch sang in the air, cutting a whistling slice as it raised bloody welts on her shoulder. She had received four lashes, one for each of her years, reminders of her harsh life on the little farmstead at the edge of the forest. To her credit, Ebbie barely cried out, knowing the punishment would be harsher if she did. The farmer moved off, muttering to himself about spilled milk and clumsy girls, leaving his daughter to wallow in the milky mud. He never noticed when she disappeared from the yard.

Tears streamed down her dirty face as she shambled into the dark brush behind their house. The air was cool on her stinging back, bringing some measure of relief. The wind danced in last year's fallen leaves, lifting them up in a dizzy swirl as she passed by to the melody of droning bees singing a sharp accompaniment to the wooded waltz. Trilling larks cartwheeled between the trees while thrushes played tag within the canopy even as the trees whispered secrets to one another, creaking in an ancient language that flowed into the dancing brook's chuckling waters. Ebbie collapsed in an exhausted heap at the pebbled verge of the creek, her eyes as red and raw as her abused back. Shuddering breaths eventually gave way to heavy eyelids as the babbling brook hummed her a lullaby. The child was unaware of the sentinel forest that surrounded her, or the ancient one awakened by the single tear that dripped off her cheek to sink into the mossy earth.

He rose, gathering the fallen branches to him, the swirling leaves and tender summer grasses, sculpting his form as it rippled from a mere suggestion into corporeal reality and then back again to phantasm. The Forest Father remembered when the world was young and the wind was new. He had heard the first sweet song of the dove when the rocks played in their nursery beds. He was of them and they were of him, the ancient oaks and bones of the earth that cradled him in slumber, and he had finally awakened at the call of a single salten tear.

This creature that lay on the creek bank was unknown to him; reaching into his first memories, he couldn't bring up the recollection of her race, or indeed any that vaguely resembled her. When had he slipped into the earth to rest? He couldn't remember. The Forest Father stretched, sensing all the wildwoods, coming upon the edge of his hinterland where the little one's kin had intruded. When last he was awake, the trees had stretched on for endless leagues and the wild creatures kept him company, wandering in untamed delight through his demesne. The ancient being flowed through the roots of the trees and the blades of grass to see what this encroachment meant.

* * *

"Witcher! Master Witcher! Please! Will you please help me?" The woman's voice was rough, as though she had been weeping her whole life. Gaetan tried to keep his head down as he led the appaloosa gelding through the nameless settlement bordering the upper verges of Kaedwen, but she caught up with him before he stepped into the saddle, desperation making her bold as she snatched at his elbow. Without quite turning, he glared at her over his shoulder, waiting to hear what she had to say. Since Honorton, he had been loath to tarry too close to any villages, but he was running short on supplies and winter lay dormant under the last of the summer flowers.

As if she hadn't expected him to pay her any mind, she balked, gulping at the glittering amber of cat's eyes that sneered down at her. Her hand fell to her side before she plucked up her fallen courage.

"My daughter, Master Witcher." The woman's voice was hushed as if a louder tone would awaken her weeping. "She's gone missing. BEEN missing for this week past. What would ye charge to find my bairn?"

Gaetan closed his eyes, suppressing memories of his most recent contract, then turned to look her full in the face. She wasn't old, no more than twenty-five, though her hard life of grinding farm work had aged her beyond her years. She would have been lovely had she been born to privilege, he thought, admiring her wheat gold hair and soft brown eyes now smudged by weary grief. Running a hand over his bristled scalp, he asked the usual questions.

"How old is she? When did she go missing? Does she have a tendency to wander?" He ticked the questions off on his left hand as he scratched the imaginary itch on the back of his head.

"Me baby's only four summers and she disappeared about five days ago. She never wandered before." The woman took a deep breath, controlling the wobble in her voice. The wobble of her chin was a different story. "We looked all over, we did. Me man figures she toddled off into the wood and got et by something there." The witcher's eyes closed briefly before he looked at her with pity.

"Most likely." Gaetan tried not to feel sorry for her, tried not to feel anything at all.

"I … I know 'tis probably true," she gasped. "But… Could you … how much would you charge to find any remains so's I … so's I …" She couldn't get the last words out, but they twisted in his gut all the same.

He wasn't sure what made him do it. Not like there was anything left of the Cat school to justify such a decision on his part. Looking into the grieving mother's eyes, the witcher knew he would help her, even if she had nothing to give him.

"Give me that which you have, but you don't know you have yet," he murmured. "That's my price for finding your daughter."

She chewed her lip for a moment, then nodded and stuck out her hand. "Me name's Trinnie, me man's Gort and the little'un ye be looking for is Ebbie. Come, I'll feed ye some soup and ye're welcome to a bed, at least for the night."

Trinnie led the road-weary man back to her farmstead. Nosey neighbors glared holes in his back, unaware their whispers were raucous shouts to the Cat's sensitive hearing. Ignoring them, the witcher followed his new employer home as orange and purple glory began to paint the sky. A sleepy chorus of crickets and tree frogs sang the last wisps of daylight to bed as the pair walked a well-worn cart track along the edges of the forest, arriving at a small yard pinned to earth by a tidy log cabin. A spacious byre, well tended and laid with fresh hay and a full water trough, awaited the farmer and his cattle at the end of a long day.

Trinnie's man was typical of his breed, of average height with coloring and features similar to every other male peasant from the sea to the Blue Mountains. Gort herded ten cows and one hobbled bull, fat from nipping grass all day, into the yard just as Trinnie and Gaetan arrived. The farmer flicked a freshly peeled birch switch over the backs of the animals, encouraging them to trundle faster as he spied his wife and scowled.

"Trinnie, what be the meanin' o' this?" Gort's bellow competed with the lowing beasts as he struggled through the herd to confront the woman and her guest. "Who's he and why 'ave ye brought another mouth te feed, wench?"

"He be a witcher an' he's gonna find my Ebbie," said the woman with a mulish thrust of her jaw, eyes sparkling with martial light. "I've offered him food and a bed fer the night and ye'll not gainsay me in this, Gort. Hospitality demands bread and salt!"

"A witcher?" Gort flailed his arms as he strode to his wife, growling brutishly down into her face. "We can't 'ford no witcher, ye dafty bitch! An' I tol' ye, the brat is dead. It's time ye get o'er it. I'll plant another in yer belly in due time." Trinnie simply looked at her husband, her face a mask of anger and misery as she refused to back down. Capitulating with a vicious oath, the farmer thundered, "Fine, ye can feed an' house 'im tonight but he best be gone come morning!"

Gaetan inspected the hooves of his horse, jaw bunching as bitter words slid down his throat unspoken. He tried not to take Trinnie's tears personally, but his fists tightened about the horse's reins, strangling his urge to punch the farmer.

' _It's not my business. I'm just here to do a job,'_ Gaetan repeated to himself as if the mantra would assuage the rage churning inside him.

"Don't ye worry what I've agreed to pay the witchman, Gort," Trinnie retorted, her soft voice belying anger that flushed out her natural beauty. "Dinnae fear it will cut into yer drinking money." They glared at each other in wordless battle until the vulgar man stormed away, flinging profanities at his wife as he went to settle the cattle. Trinnie scrubbed at her tears, motioning for Gaetan to follow her into the cabin.

Despite a cramped interior, the little hut was neat as a pin. The sniffling woman stirred a merry fire to life in the hearth and swung an iron pot over the flames. Soon a hearty pottage stew filled the air with aromatic hints of barley, beef, and carrots, making Gaetan's mouth water and his belly rumble. He looked around the little dwelling as his hostess pottered about laying crockery and cutlery on the table. A small bed was tucked in the corner topped by a ragged pink blanket and a lonely rag doll waiting for her child. To the right, a rough ladder climbed to an open loft where he could see a bright, homespun quilt draped over the foot of a larger bed.

Trinnie set a large, steaming bowl of pottage before him, distracting him as she ladled cool cider into an earthenware mug. Finally, she settled with her own food and sat twiddling a spoon through the stew, gazing blindly out a gingham-clad window.

"This is good, thanks," Gaeten mumbled through a mouthful, grateful he would have a full belly. He savored the food, hoping Gort would stay out of the cottage long enough for them to finish eating in peace.

The farmer finally burst into the room, demanding food and drink in a surly tone, just as the witcher swallowed his last mouthful, Gaetan ran one hand across his chin as he listened to the surly man order his wife around in circles. Holding onto his patience, the witcher redirected the farmer's attention from Trinnie and quietly questioned him about Ebbie.

"I've agreed to help find your daughter, or at least what remains of her," shrugged the lean Cat. "Before I try to track her in the morning, I need information. When was the last time you saw her?" Gaetan took a sip of his drink to hide his face as he listened to the other man's answers.

"She were carrying a bucket o' milk to her mum." Said the farmer, scratching his head as he thought. "Little dafty tripped an' spilled the whole lot o' it in the yard an' I punished her so's she would be more careful next time. That was … five days past. In th' morning." Trinnie, pausing for a moment from her labors, nodded in agreement.

"Was she wearing anything special? Anything that might help me identify her?" The witcher questioned further. Gort just shrugged but Trinnie gasped and turned toward a cupboard.

"I fashioned curtains and had enough fabric left to make a little scarf for her hair," she said, pulling out some scraps of checked cloth he recognized from the window coverings and the doll's dress. The witcher took the proffered swatch, running his fingers over the fine gingham. Trinnie had traded dearly for her small lengths of fabric. Nodding, Gaetan rose from his seat, tucking the cloth into one of his small pouches. Thanking the farmer and his wife, the lean man wearily retreated to the little bed his hostess had assured was his for the night. Soon, the couple headed for their own bed as well.

Sighing, Gaetan sank down on the straw-filled mattress, setting swords and armor within easy reach before allowing his muscles to relax. Careful to set the doll aside, the Cat stretched his compact frame on the little bed and ruminated on this contract. Five days of cattle and people milling about the little yard, stirring things up wouldn't make his job easier, but he should be able to pick up Ebbie's trail on the edge of the homestead. Doing his best to ignore the couple settling into the loft above him, the witcher closed his eyes, shutting out the sound of Gort insisting Trinnie perform her marital duties despite the witcher's presence less than eight feet from them. It was going to be a long, restless night.

* * *

Dribbles of light filtered through the fine mist that greeted the morning. The tang of thunderstorms that would surely strike before noon lay heavy in the air. Carefully prowling the yard and peering at the dusty ground Gaetan soon found his suspicions correct; Any sign of the child had been obliterated. Moving toward the perimeter of the farmstead he meticulously inspected the verge of scrub and grass bordering the forest. THERE! A bent twig, caught in a silken strand of blond hair, dangled a scant eighteen inches above the dimpled, elongated impression of a small heel. Gaetan measured the print against the palm of his hand and scowled. The child had stumbled here in pain, dragging her left foot just a little. Pinching some dirt from the heel print between his fingers, the witcher detected the unmistakable coppery tang of blood. What did that asshat, Gort, do to her? Another bent stem beckoned just beyond the first print, leading him further into the brush as robins sang sleepy wake-up songs.

Faint signs and shallow tracks wove a jagged trail across the forest, here lay a full footprint, there just an impression of toes as she had climbed over a dead tree in her path, disturbing the fungus clinging to the rotting bark. Treading softly as he went, Gaetan was careful not to disturb the evidence in case he lost the trail and had to retrace Ebbie's path. The watery sun peeked through a break in the clouds to witness the witcher entering a little clearing where a stream burbled happily over moss covered stones and ferns dipped their toes in the clear current. Stuck on a thorn bush by the brook were a few threads of good quality gingham.

She had been here, but she hadn't been alone. Strange prints joined hers in the soft ground. Stumped by the new prints, the Cat thumbed his chin as he thought. These weren't paw marks from a beast, nor the dragging steps of necrophages and larger threats, like fiends or chorts, would have torn up the clearing. Gaetan looked at the pristine site shaking his head. Godlings were attracted to children, and dopplers could assume a form that would reassure a little girl, but neither were violent souls nor did he think would Ebbie be in danger from them. He wasn't aware of any dryad activity in these lands since the beginning of the northern wars, and they left tracks like humans or elves in any event.

Squatting, the witcher brushed his hand back and forth across the soft grass and breathed in the fresh scents of earth and leaves. Something about the clearing was soothing, peaceful, inviting him to stay. The feeling was so strong that, for a moment, he dropped to his knees desiring nothing more than true rest. Gaetan narrowed his eyes grasping his medallion. Rising to his feet he strained to detect even a minute tremble in the snarling silver pendant as he resisted the siren call of the glade. Inching forward, he bent to inspect the ground again and trailed his hand along one of the strange tracks. If he were more whimsical in nature, he would say an oak sapling had hoisted itself out of the earth and gone walkabout.

Like Ebbie's footprints, these tracks crisscrossed the area. Measuring the stride of the creature, however, revealed nothing. In some cases, its steps were no longer than the child's and reminiscent of a barefoot human, in others, they were longer than three of his own, resembling a tangle of roots and rocks. It could change its shape and size. His thoughts returned to the possibility of a doppler, so easily dismissed earlier. That still didn't seem right, though.

As the lean man surveyed the far edge of the dell, he discovered the tracks led toward the heart of the forest. They were longer and deeper as if the creature carried something and hurried to put as much distance between itself and human habitation as it could.

"A leshen?" Gaetan mumbled to himself, scratching the itchy spot on the back of his head, just where it met his neck. "There's no totem and no sign of crows or wolves. Legends say the forest men take children, but I've never heard of it actually happening."

Sighing, the Cat dredged deep in his memory for every scrap of lore and knowledge he could recall. Leshiye were known to be capricious and savage, especially toward humans, seldom sparing anyone who intruded on their territory. Most scholars believed they were post-conjunction creatures, but some postulated they were the true natives of this world and predated the appearance of the gnomes. They were brutally dangerous opponents and an old one could easily get the upper hand even on a witcher. Considering the nature and depth of the tracks, this leshen didn't strike Gaetan as fresh out of the docket.

Doing some quick calculations based on the direction of travel and length of the creature's stride, the witcher looked carefully at the edges of each print. The leshen had taken Ebbie away five days ago. His search and recover mission had just turned into a protracted hunt and Gaeten hurried back to the farmstead to collect his horse and gear. He stepped into the yard just as Trinnie and Gort came out of the little cabin.

"Did … did ye find her?" Trinnie's face was ashen as she looked hopefully at the lean man.

"No," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "But I found tracks. She wasn't killed, at least she was alive when she was taken by a leshen. It carried her off and I mean to follow."

"A leshy?" Gort barked, disbelief etched on his florid features. "What's a leshy doin' here?"

"Who knows." Gaetan strove for a neutral tone as he spoke with the farmer. "The bigger question is why it carried your daughter off. They aren't known for their love of humans."

"Ye'll kill it, then, right? Yer a witcher and that's what ye do." The farmer tugged at his stock, beetling his brows at Gaetan.

Adjusting the saddle blanket on his appaloosa before tossing the saddle on the gelding's back, the lean Cat strove for control. "I only kill monsters that need killing," he threw over his shoulder, knowing the irony was lost on the peasant. Taking a deep breath, the witcher added, "I'd rather not have to fight an ancient leshen if I don't have to."

Gort was winding up a retort as Trinnie stepped forward thrusting something into Gaetan's hands. The Cat looked down at the little doll in her gingham dress, then back up at the sorrowing mother.

"Bring my baby back, Master Witcher," Trinnie gulped with a watery smile. "I packed some vittles in your saddlebag this morning. It's not much but it should tide you over a few days. " A crystalline tear snagged in her fine lashes begging Gaetan to brush it free. Clutching the doll in both hands, the lean man only nodded his head.

"I'll do my best." He promised, tucking the child's toy into his satchel before stepping into the saddle and turning his horse toward the heart of the forest. He rode off leaving the homesteaders staring after him, one with hope in her eyes as the other glared malice. Thunder rumbled and rain began to patter amongst the leaves, weeping small rivulets down the back of his studded leather jerkin as Gaetan rode out of sight.

* * *

He followed the trail for four days, riding deeper and deeper into pristine woods that hadn't seen axe or saw blade for hundreds of years. How many old growth forests were left on the continent, how long before this one was turned into houses and furniture and burned up for winter warmth?

Gaetan dismounted, sipping water from his canteen before examining a fresh set of tracks. These had been made within the last twenty-four hours and were more shallow than the older traces had been, less hurried and the stride shorter. Small human footprints walked beside those of the beast, as well. Ebbie. The little girl was still alive, at least she was as of yesterday midmorning. Nodding to himself, the lean cat stayed on foot, letting the tracks lead him to a cut in the earth where moss covered stones marched in ragged formation down a blind canyon.

Vertical walls rose seventy feet above him as he followed the crooked path to the bottom of the rift. Light filtered green through a canopy of trees rising another two hundred feet above the rim and a light breeze caressed the lean Cat's face. Drifting scents of old leaves mingled with wet grass and the loamy aroma of fertile soil to ripple around his olfactory senses. Pausing, Gaetan listened carefully, identifying myriad sounds echoing from rocky wall to rocky wall. Jackdaws and jays screamed in the trees, a murder of crows argued with a territorial finch over a dab of sunlight, and in the near distance a pack of canines whined and yipped as they played in the grass. Was that the piping sound of a child's laugh amongst the wolves?

Dropping the reins and commanding his mount to stay, Gaetan stalked forward, silent as he pulled well-oiled steel from its sheath. He rounded jumbled boulders as the canyon wall turned a sharp corner, fascinated by what he saw. A large wolf pack lounged on the loamy ground, relaxed and easy, by swift count numbering around twelve adults. Two pups tumbled together growling and yipping as they played within sight of their mother. Some individuals dozed in the gathering heat of the day. A cascading pool of light flowing down one wall of the canyon and revealed a dirty child, giggling as she snuggled the belly of a male dire wolf lolling about in a pile of leaves. The animal was easily three times her size, yet it lay on its back stretching in obvious delight as if it were a tamed hound receiving the customary scratches due a family's favored pet. Gaetan's foot came down on a patch of gravel, crunching loud enough to alert the wolves. He steeled himself for a battle, but the canines held their place as they bristled and glared at him, a solid wall of muscle and fur between him and the girl. Then his medallion began to tremble violently on his breast.

The wind picked up, fluttering along the ground, picking up leaves and twigs in its path. It swirled around the witcher's legs and skidded along creases in the rocks as it brought detritus to a terminal point and coalesced into a humanoid form. Gaetan slowly sheathed his sword and stepped forward, his hands held up in a non-threatening gesture as the creature wavered between the suggestion of a corporeal being and the visage of a strangely constructed man.

"I don't want to hurt you or your pack. Just want to take the little girl back to her mother." Gaetan kept his voice low, nonthreatening as he advanced, fighting to stay relaxed. The leshen settled into its humanoid form and watched the man's approach warily.

Reaching out a tendril of thought, the Forest Father probed this new being, this man. Was he like the others? The surface of the witcher's mind swirled in a kaleidoscope of confusion. The intermingled images of Ebbie's parents floated amidst memories of another girl and a river of blood. Faster than the witcher could blink, roots shot out of the ground to imprison him, binding his arms to his side and lifting his feet six inches off the ground. The primordial creature moved forward in one impossible stride and glared into the witcher's eyes with orbs fashioned of polished stones.

Gaetan struggled in the stiff prison, desperately tamping down temper and panic. Neither would save him or the little girl. This leshen, this ancient being was far beyond his considerable experience. Slowly, the Forest Father spoke, not in anything that could be called a voice and not with identifiable words, but Gaetan understood him nonetheless.

"Why have you come here? I am not like your kind, I don't desire blood." Twigs and leaves fluttered on the creature's visage revealing its agitation.

"I just want to take Ebbie home. That's all. Happy to leave you be." Gaetan squirmed as the roots tightened around him painfully, digging into the tender flesh of his belly and cutting off his air.

"Why? The male creature abused her, thrashed her with a peeled branch." Images of Gort whipping his little daughter, stringing epithets together as he abused her small body crawled through the witcher's mind. Gaetan couldn't help it, rage rose to the surface as his own memories of the man collided with the information the leshen fed him.

"Your species … I understand it not," growled the Forest Father. "You came, planning to kill me, yet now you wish to kill the other man." The leshan prowled around his suspended victim, flowing in and out of corporeal reality. "You have killed many, in fact, both your own kind and others." The ancient one's 'voice' became a thundering roar, drowning out all thought. "Why should I let a monster like you live?" He slammed Gaetan to the ground violently, hovering over the struggling witcher and plunging viciously into his mind.

* * *

"Why did you kill me?" begged a voice he recognized. Gaetan stopped struggling, realizing he was somehow free, only … only this wasn't right. He was in Honorton, after the massacre. The dead surrounded him with accusing faces, each demanding an answer. "Why did you kill me!" The voice belonged to a little boy, no older than seven, with a grievous wound that opened his belly and spilled his intestines on the ground.

"I … I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I lost control." Gaetan backpedaled from the dead child, turned and came face to face with another of Honorton's dead. It was the man who skewered him with a pitchfork. The witcher pointed an accusing finger and his voice shook as he screamed, "YOU! You started it! It was your fault! I would have just walked away but you cheated me! You tried to kill me!"

"Explain 'cheated'," asked a water hag shuffling toward him as the villagers of Honorton dissolved into the surrounding mist. Gaetan took a step back, instinctively reaching for his silver, adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins. His belly tightened in fear as he realized he was unarmed.

"It means we made a deal," raged the witcher. "I took care of the monster that terrorized them, contracted a price for it, and they refused to pay me!"

"What did I do to you? Why did you kill me?" The Beast of Honorton took the hag's place.

"You killed people, for fuck's sake! The village hired me to stop you!" Gaetan shoved both hands over his shorn head and roared, "That's what I do! I hunt monsters for money, it's what I was made for!"

The leshan disappeared into smoke. "You were made?" A priestess of Melitele held a bowl of bloody water and rags as Gaetan fell to his knees in agony.

"What are you doing to me?" The words scoured his throat as he howled in pain.

"Explain this," said the priestess, lifting the bowl as she cocked her head."

"I almost died," gasped the witcher, desperately trying to hold his belly together, blood seeping through his fingers. "It ... dammit … it was … it was a strigga." Bloody sputum dribbled between his lips. "A cursed being. Terrorized a village. Ripped me up before I could kill her. AAAHHHH make it stop! PLEASE!"

He fell forward, one bloody hand holding himself up. Soft arms reached out to comfort him, eased him down to the ground and smoothed his brow. He looked into smoky blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. Darriana. Gods no.

"What is this about? What are these feelings?" She asked as her soft hands roamed his body, removing his clothing, stirring him to passion. The witcher twined a hand through the woman's chestnut locks.

"Darri," he sobbed. "Darri."

"Explain."

"She was dear to me." He trailed a finger over the curve of her cheek. "She died." He curled in on himself and wept. "She drowned and I couldn't save her. Couldn't reach her in time." Wracking sobs forced their way out of his body.

"Get up, witcher!" Master Varin snarled.

"Wha … what?" Gaetan gasped and looked up into the mutated eyes of his fencing master.

"Get up you gods be damned pussy! GET UP!" Varin kicked Gaetan in the hip. "Explain this! What is this about?" The Cat struggled to stand, tilting drunkenly as he gained his feet.

"Training," he gasped. "Varin was a prick." Gaetan recognized the practice yard where he had bled and puked in equal measure.

"Explain!" Roared the fencing master.

"This is where I learned to be a witcher, learned to fight and kill." He didn't dodge Varin's fist as it flattened him back to the ground.

"WHY?" Screamed a mage, binding Gaetan's hands above his head. Somehow, he was ten and on a mutation slab again in the darkest pit at Kaer Mater. His young body arched as they pumped poison through him, slamming him over and over with pulses of magic that ripped his insides apart. He howled his rage and anguish in wordless agony, reliving the nightmare.

"Why?" Whispered his mother, her sad, sunken eyes watching as he was hauled to his feet and taken by the grim man with two swords strapped to his back. Gaetan looked back, tears tracking down his face as she receded into the fog.

"Mama couldn't feed all of us and the witcher offered to take me off her hands," he croaked, voice raw and wounded as he curled in on himself. The old witcher faded and a little girl stood in his place, dressed in rags, her hair tangled about her face.

"Zoe." Gaetan's voice was gone and her name breathed through his lips like a prayer, fading into the silence. Falling to his knees, he brushed a lock of frizzled hair from her eyes with hands that trembled across her brow. She had looked at him just like this only moments before he was taken, with eyes the same color his own had been before ...

"Why?" she whimpered, seeking to understand. He had no answer for her as he bowed at her feet, wrung out and defeated.

* * *

A smattering of hens trundled about the yard, clucking merrily as Trinnie scattered grain for them. She hummed tunelessly, a secret smile playing about her lips, then shook her apron free of remaining feed. The clatter of hooves and creaking leather brought her head around as an appaloosa gelding bearing two riders walked into the yard.

"Ebbie? EBBIE!" The woman shrieked, dashing forward as the gelding came to a halt. Gaetan passed the child to the sobbing woman before dismounting. The lean Cat threaded the reins through his fingers, thinking of other tearful reunions over the years. A bitter smile played about his lips as he watched Trinnie fuss over the little girl. Eventually, the woman stood, wiping moisture from her cheeks as she looked into golden eyes.

"Thank ye." She laid a gentle hand on Gaetan's arm, came close enough to reach on tiptoe and brush his cheek with a chaste kiss. Blushing at her temerity, she stepped back, then looked at her daughter.

"I owe ye everything. Ye brought back that which I thought I had lost." Her voice wobbled. "I … I suppose ye'll be taking her with ye, then."

Gaetan almost smiled as he said, "A little girl needs her mother and I'm a piss poor stand in for you." He was rewarded by the relief surging over her face. She took a deep breath and looked toward the woods.

"Gort's in the clearing where ye started tracking me chickie," she said hands stroking Ebbie's hair. "He asked me to send ye to 'im when ye arrived. Let me care for yer horse and pack some vittles whilst ye talk."

"Wouldn't think Gort wants to talk to me," grumbled Gaetan, passing the reins to the woman's waiting hand.

"He's," she hesitated. " Somethin's different about 'im lately."

"Different? In what way?" A suspicion began to form in the witcher's mind.

"Well," she said, "four days ago, 'e went off, 'is usual self, into the fields, but when 'e came home, 'e were different." She cocked her head to one side. "I'm hopin' the changes stick, honestly."

* * *

The witcher took his time, tracing the path back to the peaceful glade by memory and soaking in the small sounds of the forest. Gort stood with his bare toes in the brook, letting the water bubble over them as tiny fry nibbled at his skin. He had acquired a stately staff of twisted oak that he leaned on, his eyes closed in his upturned face as sunlight erased shadows and contours. Slowly, he smiled and turned to watch the Cat's approach. Gaetan's medallion began to hum and tremble as the Cat stepped forward slowly, realizing who really awaited him.

"What did you do with Gort?" Gaetan's tone was conversational as if inquiring the time of day.

"The man is still here, but he is subdued. In fact, he slumbers," the ancient one murmured.

"Who are you?" The witcher asked, then took a step back as impressions flashed through his mind of primordial forests and the rich tang of old growth trees rooted deep in loamy soil. His senses were overwhelmed by the feel of leaves as they danced in the wind, feathers stretched in flight and cool rocks as they brushed against whiskers.

"I suppose Gort will do. Your kind requires monikers for everything," the being chuckled, watching thoughts play across Gaetan's face.

"You let me live. Why?" Golden eyes narrowed.

"I do not understand your kind. You … humans … have aroused my curiosity and I wish to learn." Stroking his chin, Gort sat on a moss padded log, inviting the witcher to join him. "You are primitive, but you have potential. Even this one whose body I now use has potential."

"You plan on releasing him, then?" The witcher lowered himself to the log, savoring the texture of a bit of moss he rubbed between thumb and finger.

"Release isn't quite the idea I was aiming for. I seek a … how would you put it?" Tapping the end of the staff lightly against his big toe, the creature thought for a moment. "A peaceful merger for the remainder of his life."

"Trinnie?"

"Is delightful and I find myself wishing to please her." The farmer grinned and, to the Cat's amusement, blushed. Gaeten chuckled ruefully and scratched the back of his head.

"I also wish to stay close to Ebbie. How does your species start in such pure innocence?" Gort held his face to the sun again, breathing the soft summer air and savoring it as if it were the finest wine.

"You're a lucky bastard," Gaetan said, "if I weren't a witcher I would be jealous."

"Trinnie sent you to find me, correct?" The Cat nodded. "I have something for you." Gort stood, rumpling a hand through his pockets. "You humans have the most curious coverings, but they do come in handy." He produced an acorn and held it toward Gaetan in the flat of his palm. "Take that back to the place we met and plant it where you lay when you awoke. Then follow the rift to its end. There you will find a small cave."

"Is this a key to some sort of treasure?" Gaetan was doubtful as he tucked the acorn in his belt pouch.

"A key? No. But there were bandits camping in the grotto who tried to attack the child when we arrived. I'm afraid I killed them in my wrath." Gort hung his head in shame. "You might find some use in their things."

"And the acorn?" asked the witcher.

Gort cut a sideways look at the Cat and tipped a lopsided grin. "Even one such as me has the imperative to reproduce. Never fear, I will oversee my progeny closely to ensure a witcher doesn't need to be called in." He clasped Gaetan's hand as the witcher stood.

Before the lean cat took four steps toward the farm, Gort halted his progress, murmuring, "One more thing, Witcher Gaetan, the seed you plant will return to your hand and the field you thought barren will produce a harvest. Fare you well on the path."

Nodding at the cryptic words, the lean man turned his back on the peaceful glade.

* * *

Riding away from the farm, the witcher felt more settled in his spirit than at any time since he began his Path nearly a century ago. Reaching the crossroads, Gaetan pondered his course as dust plumes from his horse's hooves drifted away in the breeze. He watched men and women busily working the golden fields on either side of the road, laying up grain and hay against the coming winter. To the north lay Kovir, Povis and the Hengfors league bordered by the ragged teeth of the Dragon Mountains. South would take him toward Nilfgaard and he was definitely not welcome there. Skellige lay to the west in the midst of the sea, and the Blue Mountains crouched eastward, between the continent and unknown wilds that led to Zerrikania. He could reach Ofir by Ship. He wondered if there were witchers in that distant land. Scratching his chin, the lean Cat thought of all the places he hadn't seen yet. There was a whole wide world to be discovered. Tilting his face to the sun and reveling as warm wind flow around him, Gaetan laughed. With a jingle of harness he turned the appaloosa toward the sea.


	5. Occupational Necessities

**I must admit I have bowed to a foolish caprice with this little story. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!**

* * *

"I can help who's next," yelled the bored lady at the counter. A man stepped up to the register and cleared his throat.

"I'm here to pick up my prescriptions. They should have been called in already, a full complement of witcher meds."

"Name," said the pharmacy technician as she punched the display screen in front of her.

"Oh, uh, Nate," said Nate.

"Last name?"

"Josonovick," he replied.

"Spell that?" she was tapping a finger on the counter, waiting on him.

"J… O … S…"

"Thanks. Birthdate?"

"What do you need that for?" Nate scratched his head, narrowing his slit-pupiled eyes at the woman.

"If you want to pick up your prescriptions, you have to verify your birthday for me. Makes sure we know we give them to the right person." She sounded bored and chirpy at the same time. It was an impressive feat.

"Oh, okay. Uhm, let me think … June, uh … June seventh, twelve thirty-five." More screen tapping ensued.

"Ok. I show you have six prescriptions ready, Mr. Josonovick. Let me get those for you," she chirped.

"Wait. Only six? I should have at least eight. What do you have there?" He tried to peer over the viewscreen as the tech bustled around gathering bags from the holding area. She laid them out so he could see the prescription labels.

"Ok, we have ninety day fills on your Full Moon and Golden Oriole tablets, and thirty day fills on the Griffon, Killer Whale and Katakan capsules. Oh, and your Tawny Owl is a thirty day supply."

Nate inspected the documentation, almost choking when he looked at the price of his Tawny owl. "That can't be right, can it? Twelve hundred orens? My insurance should pay for that."

"It's really expensive, sir, and most witcher insurance plans don't cover more than one or two tablets a month. You have to have a prior authorization that states you need it to perform your job or it's viewed as a luxury med." Her look was apologetic, polite and impersonally sympathetic.

"Ok, so, can I just get six of those little purple pills?" He asked, his brows bunching together as a frown tugged the corner of his lips down.

"Yeah, we can do that," she said.

"So, where's my Swallow? I should have a three month supply of pen injectors here," he asked, watching her hand his Tawny Owl back to a pharmacist.

"Huh. Let me go look." She smiled and gathered up his unpurchased drugs, depositing them next to her at a computer terminal. He heard the clacking of keys as she muttered to one of her co-workers.

"I love, and by love I mean hate, having to mess with witcher orders. They are always so messed up. Tess - what's the DEA regs on Swallow now?"

"I feel ya, Maggie. I feel ya right here." Tess clenched a fist over her heart and looked at the screen. "They just made swallow a CII medication. He has to have a fresh script with a wet signature from the prescriber each month. There's also limitations on it. Without a PA, he can only get twice a day dosing. They're really cracking down on it." More keyboard clacking erupted before Maggie returned.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Josonovick," she said, uneasy. "It appears that you can't get any more until next month. Federal regulations, you understand. My hands are tied."

"But! I need that! How am I supposed to do my job without Swallow?" His face was a mask of frustration and outrage. The pharmacist slipped up to the counter as the technician continued to process his prescriptions through her display screen.

"Is there anything I can help you with Mr.," The pharmacist picked up one of the little bags of pills, "Josonovick?"

"I want to know why I can't get my Swallow filled today!" The witcher was becoming downright angry now and the pharmacist pasted a conciliatory smile on his face as he cut his eyes toward the tech. Nate could hear the man's heart begin to race, could smell his fear and see the fine tremors in his hands as adrenaline pulsed through him.

"I am so sorry we can't fill this medication today, sir. New federal regulations restrict the dispensing of Swallow as it has been made a class II narcotic." Nate took the leaflet the pharmacist passed to him. "Maybe your prescriber could write you a prescription for Ibuprofen in the meantime?"

The witcher just looked at the pharmacist as the technician rang up his six meds. He missed the days when he brewed his own potions and decoctions. Things were so much simpler when he started out on the witcher's Path. Nate sighed.

"That will be eighty-nine orens and fifty-three coppers." Said Maggie, smiling brightly at him.

"I thought those were supposed to be covered. Why weren't they covered? Is that all seven of my prescriptions?" His anger was giving way to desperate fatalism.

"Seven? What are we missing, Mr. Josonovick?" She asked, forcing a smile past her clenched teeth.

"Raeford's. Should come in a pen. Did they make that a class II narcotic as well?" He was flippant as he crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at her.

"Let me go check. I'll be right back." Again she traipsed back to her computer and punched in information before returning with a less forced smile.

"The prescription just came through. I mean we JUST got it. If you would like to take a seat, we'll have that filled for you in a few minutes." She looked up and motioned to the customer behind him as Nate shuffled to the bench.

Yanking out his cell phone, the witcher resigned himself to biding his time as he cruised the Notice Board sites. There were the usual posts about someone's lost dog or some churl cheating on his girlfriend. He scanned the messages for any advertisement for a witcher - "Exterminator needed, nekker infestation" or "Strange knockings in the attic, we think it's a wraith". Resting his chin on a fist, Nate thought about his choice to remain freelance rather attach himself to one of the extermination companies. Hell, even State and Federal agencies contracted witchers long term, and he hadn't heard of THEM struggling to get their meds.

"Josonovick?" Another tech called his name. Nate looked up and saw Tess smiling at him and rose to his feet. He noticed Maggie was busy with an elderly lady at another register.

"Alright Mr. Josonovik, we have everything," said Tess, poking the screen briskly. "What's your birthdate again, sir?" The witcher provided her with the information as he reached for his wallet and started counting out Mark notes. "That will be sixty-seven orens and twenty-two coppers. We found a discount card for the Raeford's and a free thirty day trial for the Tawny Owl, so you got your original fill. We can only use that once, but there's a program for witchers that brings the cost of that med down a whole lot." She handed him a brochure that showed a smiling witcher standing next to a pretty woman in a lab coat on the cover. Nate handed the cash to the technician as she finished ringing him up and put his meds in a bag. As he tucked his change into his wallet, he saw a business card. Thanking the woman at the counter, the witcher walked away.

He emerged onto the busy street in Novigrad and looked at the bustling activity as people went to and fro about their day. Running the card through his fingers, Nate looked at the address and sighed deeply, turning his steps toward the government offices on old Temple Isle. He had held out as long as he possibly could. At least they wouldn't quibble about his supply of swallow. Resigned, the witcher lost himself in the crush of humanity and the booming glare of progress.


	6. Witchers Didn't Start The Fire

**Dandelion's been busy writing new songs. Somehow, he got to go to a Billy Joel concert and really liked one song. Here's his version of "We Didn't Start The Fire".**

* * *

Witcher's Didn't Start The Fire  
Lyrics by Dandelion  
(To the tune of "We Didn't Start The Fire" by Billy Joel)

Queen Calanthe, Paveta, Birthday Party, Elder Blood,

Cintra, Ciri, Child of Surprise,

Borch Three Jackdaws, Crinfrid Reapers, Dragon Hunt

Yennefer of Vengerberg, Villentrentemerth

Dol Blathana, Hungry elves, Dandelion, Toruviel

Butcher of Blaviken, Lesser Evil, Black sun

Stregobor, Renfri, blood is running in the streets

Iola, Neneke, Temple of Melitele,

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

* * *

Incest,Foltest,Strigga is a princess,

Witcher Contract, Stay the night, Lift the curse

Massacre of Cintra, Lion Cub, Itheline

Nilfgaard aggression, Madness and disdain

Sodden Hill, Cohern, Merigold of Maribor,

Kaer Morhen, Vesemir, Witcher training, sword drills,

Lambert, Eskel, Leo and Coen

Thanned Coup, Vilgefortz, Some one let the elves in 

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

* * *

Little Horse, Visigoth, Mistle, Asse,Iskra,Reef,

Gisleher, Kaileigh, Bonehart's got a bone to pick

Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy

Angoulême and Milva, Carhir was a Nilfgaard spy

Avalon, Avallac'h, chasin' Ciri round the clock

Auberon, Eredin, North is in a war again

Ge'els, Ida, Iron Wolf,Tir Na Lia, Rivia

Pretty Kitty, Pangratz, Nilfgaard's in the hot seat

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

* * *

Philippa, Fringilla, Marguerite and Kiera Metz

Franchesca Findbar, Assire var Anahid

Sheala de Tancarville, Sabrina Glevissig

Ida Emean that elf is _Aen Saevherne_

 _Saesenthessis,_ Mahakam, Geralt's in the sack again

Demavend lost his head, Emhyr wants another war

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

* * *

Creganan, Lara Doren, Prophecy is never boring

Peter Strenger, Crookback Bog, Ladies of the Woods

Dudu,Zoltan, Dandelion, Gwent Addiction passes time

Beggars wandrin' in the streets, Holy Fire's not so neat

King of Beggars, Cleaver's Pride, Horse Race, I've Gotta Ride

Skelligan Politics, King's Gambit, Crach an Crait

Udalryk's got a hyme, Byrna Bran is marking time

Hjalmar, Cerys, Hjalborn, Svanrig, Bears are in the dining hall! 

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

But when we are gone

It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on...

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Witchers didn't start the fire

No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

Witchers didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning


	7. A Matter of Loyalty

"Mererid," intoned the Emperor, raising a hand to acknowledge the Chamberlain's intrusion upon the war council.

"Your Majesty, Fringilla Vigo, as you requested."

"You may go, Mererid. And the rest of you as well," ordered the emperor with a wave of his hand. Emhyr watched the lovely sorceress curtsy before him as Field Marshals and Intelligence Specialists filed out of Vizima's throne room. She had, of course, been cleaned up and dressed appropriately for an imperial audience, adorned with tastefully crafted dimiterium shackles that looked more like fashionable jewelry than harsh bonds; Rags and filth wouldn't do for above stairs, after all. For a span of time, they regarded each other warily before Fringilla dropped her lashes, letting the emperor win their war of wills before accepting his proffered arm.

"Come. Let us retire to my private study. There are issues I wish to discuss with you away from prying eyes," Emhyr murmured in the cavernous expanse of the war room.

"As you wish, Sire," nodded Fringilla, laying her slim hand in the crook of his elbow, noticing the guards who followed them at a discrete distance. Var Emries' gesture took her by surprise. The Emperor was not known for chivalry at the best of times. This could be construed as a gesture of good faith, but she suspected him of ulterior motives. Emperors rarely graced their favored subjects, let alone those most recently hosted in the pokey, with physical contact.

"Tell me, Miss Vigo," said Var Emreis in his onerous voice, "Do you know why I distrust mages, why I have punished you for your part in the Lodge of Sorceresses?"

"We threaten your unilateral control over the shape of kingdoms, Sire," she murmured as they strolled along window lit galleries lined every twenty paces with wing-helmed imperial guards.

"In part," he agreed, ushering her through a heavy oak door into the dimly lit royal study. Latching the door carefully behind him, the man paced slowly to the back wall and inspected the titles arranged alphabetically and chronologically on the shelf. "I actually do not hate mages or the Lodge, you know. I simply demand that practitioners within the Nilfgaardian Empire put the interests of the State first - ahead of profit, ahead of personal ambition. You had a favored position in Toussaint's court advising the Duchess, your cousin I believe?"

Fringilla sighed, "I did." Emhyr grunted and pulled a slim tome from the shelves.

"Sit," he commanded, indicating a bare, wooden stool drawn up to the ornate desk that dominated a corner of the room. Dispassionately, he watched pride and pique war with good sense on the sorceress's face before she acquiesced. He allowed himself the barest smile of triumph. Sliding the narrow book toward her, he sat on the opposite side of the desk then steepled his fingers under his chin.

Slowly, she flipped through the pages. "A contract, Sire?" she asked in a monotone.

"Indeed. Pledge fealty to the Empire as your main priority, agree to serve your Emperor first and always. Comply and your involvement in the Lodge will be ... tolerated." He set an inkwell and quill before her, apparently at his leisure yet giving the impression of a cat stalking its prey. Fringilla took her time reading every page, betraying not the least agitation as she did except for a slight twitch of one finger. Finally, she looked up, her green eyes luminous in the gloom.

"Why? Why now? I've said no once before," she murmured.

"I dislike wasting resources," replied the emperor nonchalantly. "The empire has need of your talents, so long as they are accompanied by loyalty. Regardless, you would not be sitting here arguing your freedom if not for Yennefer of Vengerberg. She pleaded eloquently for your release." Fringilla fought to temper her reaction, hide her emotions.

"Yennefer is working for you now?" The question was off hand but the slight tightening of her lips was telling. Emhyr's Cheshire smile played once again at the corners of his mouth.

"Let us just say she saw the benefits of cooperation." He held her gaze, unblinking in this game of cat and mouse until she once again ceded the point to him. The sorceress nodded to herself in sudden decision, taking up the quill and dunking it rapidly in the ink to scrawl her signature at the bottom of the last page. A leash was better than a prison cell.

Shoving the signed document back toward the emperor, she held up her wrist, modulating her tone into a request rather than a demand, "And these? Surely they can be removed." She raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

"Once you have proven your loyalty, my dear. For the time being, they will remain," he decreed. "In any event, you will accompany me to my flagship, awaiting us at Gors Velen. We leave in ten hours." The Emperor rose, reaching for a bell pull near the door. As two guards entered, Emhyr tipped one eyebrow up and watched the woman rise to her feet, watched as she was escorted out and the door snapped shut behind her. He sighed and turned back to the bookcase and pulled out a slim letter hidden amongst weighty volumes. Nilfgaard would, if the great Sun was favorable, win the war. If not … if not, the council of nobles and the guild of merchants would remove him forcibly. Win or lose, Emhyr knew his time on the throne was coming to an end. He preferred to leave it under his own power rather than on a bier. For the first time in twenty years, he hoped history remembered him more kindly than he deserved. His eyes were drawn, as so often of late, to the portrait of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. Dressed in that ridiculous frilly, pink frock she glared at him from the canvas and the dour man allowed himself a small smile. Nilfgaard would win the war, he would abdicate and the hell with what the world thought. Pouring himself a chalice of Est Est, he saluted the painting and sank once more to delve into matters of state.


	8. The Tea Party

Zlub was sad. The sun was shining and he found lots of tasty bugs in a splintered tree trunk, but he was sad. The riverbank was muddy and he found a rotting drowner corpse, which was good. But he was sad. All the way back to his cave under the riverbank to the south, the troll pondered his woe. He knew he had much to be grateful for. His home was cozy and dark, full of rocks and sticks and moss for a bed. There was even a lovely spot to cook up the rotten drowner, adorned by a firepit topped with a huge copper cauldron. But his life seemed empty, incomplete. Sighing, the big creature went about the motions of cooking his dinner, sitting in front of his cauldron for a bit and poking at the burning logs beneath it. Discontent, he rumbled to his feet and trundled outside where he sat on a boulder, his feet splashing in the river and his hands limp across his fleshy belly.

Zlub wasn't just sad, he was lonely. As rock trolls went, he was a handsome enough fellow with a blue-tinged, rugged carapace and strong limbs. His jaw was firm, his forehead domed over button-like black eyes and his nasal orifices were well lubricated. Trolls couldn't stand dry nasal orifices. His teeth, of which he was quite proud, were sharpened tusks in his mouth, jutting proudly from his jaw and bearing the slightly green patina that indicated he was a young, healthy male in his prime. Just as his ruminations were about to lead him to the conclusion he needed a mate, Zlub heard the piping sound of a voice echoing near the stream.

Sneaking as only a lumbering troll can, the big creature went to investigate. He peeked around a large boulder not far from his cave and watched as a small, human child with bright blond curls set a fancy cloth dolly in a satin dress against a wicker basket before pulling out a loaf of bread, a sliced apple and a jug of milk. The little girl, clothed in a similar fashion to the doll, sang a pretty tune, utterly oblivious to the dangers of the woods. Zlub cocked his head and rumbled in his throat, catching the child's notice. Eyes growing wide, her hands stilled as the troll stomped out from behind the rock. He sounded like a tumble of boulders breaking away from a mountainside when he moved.

"Leetle hooman," he spoke in a voice like those boulders come to rest at the bottom of a ravine, "woodsies not safeyousfor. Awaygo yous. Homesies yous gots." Birds sang in the filtered, sunlit silence as the frozen child stared at the monster. Her brow furrowed and her lower lip trembled in fear for a moment before curiosity overcame terror. This thing wasn't trying to hurt her. Maybe it wasn't a monster at all.

"Will you have a tea party with me?" she asked hesitantly in her piping, little girl soprano.

"Whatsis teaparty?" Zlub struggled over the unfamiliar word. The child approached him and grasped one thick finger, the width of her upper arm.

"Come and sit with Betsy and me. I'll serve!" She dragged him to the cloth spread in the clearing and knelt, looking up at him expectantly. With a grumble and a sigh, the troll squatted, then sat with his stubby legs crisscrossed under him.

"Namesyouis?" asked Zlub, reaching for the bread.

"No, no, don't grab. We must use our manners!" piped the little girl, her ocean blue eyes snapping.

"Zlub sorrys. Namesyouis?" he asked again, twining his thick fingers together.

"My name is Zoe Adalia Judith aep Levan Strogeborg." She seemed pleased to have gotten all the names correct. "What's your name?"

"Zlub is Zlub," rumbled the troll, enunciating carefully. "Zzzzzzluuuuuuubbbb."

Zoe used a little play knife to slice a hunk of bread off for her guest, reducing at least half of Zlub's portion to crumbs in the process. Delicately, she passed him the plate then poured him a teacup of milk. She warned him to wait till she and Betsy were ready, then gave a regal nod of her winter wheat curls to indicate it was time to take tea.

By the time the bread and milk were gone, Zlub and Zoe were fast friends. The troll regarded his little companion and noted how her eyes dropped and she yawned wide. She lay her head down on the blanket and was soon fast asleep. Poor Zlub scratched his skull and wondered what he should do. She couldn't stay alone in the woods, all sorts of bad things could happen to her. He briefly thought of taking her back to her people, but Zlub didn't know where they were. He was scared of humans anyway. They used the pointy sticks to hurt trolls and Zlub always did his best to avoid them. The big creature decided the best thing he could do for now was gather Zoe and her things together and take them all back to his cave. It was safe and the fire was warm. He would think what to do once he had a belly full of drowner stew.

* * *

The road was jammed with wagons and carriages all at a standstill with their horses idle and eyeing the green shoots of spring at the verge. Off to the north stood a small castle keep surrounded by a dry moat, the white of the walls sparkling in the westering sun. The entire path was blocked by milling sheep, maids, cooks, dogs, footmen, under-butlers and the head housekeeper wondering loudly what was going on. At the head of the rabble sat a lord in a lawn chair hastily retrieved from one of the wagons and set up alongside the road creating an impromptu throne. He gripped his honey blonde hair in a fist and yelled at his captain of the guard as his wife sat in another chair just to his left, her nose lofted daintily in the air and her hands folded primly in her lap.

A young witcher dismounted his dappled mare and picked his way carefully through the grumbling crowd, his lips thinning at the delay. There were precious few settlements here in the Marches of Ebbing and he intended to make the hamlet of Glyn'Frae before the sun rose the next morning. Arguments stilled and accusations ceased as he stalked forward, straight to the seated nobles.

"Who is this? Interrupting? I'll have your head," snarled the man turning from his Captain at arms to glare at the newcomer. For his part, the worthy captain paled when he spied the two swords and glittering cat-like eyes. The lady raised an eyebrow, sitting forward ever so slightly and stroking the arm of her chair.

"I had heard Vatt'ghern were hideous creatures, scarred and ugly. But you are quite pleasing to the eye," she purred, drawing a manicured nail across her bottom lip. The woman's smile was alluring and her softly parted mouth left the witcher in no doubt as to the direction of her thoughts. Her glaring husband understood as well.

"Lady Adalyn, please find our daughter and tend to her. I wish to speak to the witcher." The order was given in a voice brooking no argument, but the woman returned her husband's gaze, a rebellious light sparking from slitted eyes.

"There's nothing you have to say to him that can't be said in front of me, Lord Raecred," Adalyn murmured, "it is MY keep after all."

Raecred lowered his voice to a sibilant hiss meant for his wife's pretty ear alone, but the witcher heard every bit of it. "Mine by right of marriage. Also mine by right of marriage is the authority to punish you, dear Ada. Don't force me to do it in public." Adalyn's eyes dropped to her clasped hands as she bowed her head demurely. Rising gracefully, she nodded at two women in waiting before sweeping regally away.

"I was just passing by. The road is blocked by your retinue and the terrain didn't give me the choice of skirting around," remarked the witcher, his dark hair stirring in the evening breeze.

"Hmm. Well, you might be useful in any event," snapped the lord, leaning back in his chair as if he addressed the lowliest of chambermaids, "who are you and from what school do you hail?"

"Vesemir of Narok, school of the Wolf. You have a contract for me?" he stated in a flat, neutral tone. The rich and powerful were an irritant he would happily do without, but they usually paid well.

"I do. See that castle?" Raecred jerked his head toward the stone edifice behind him. "A troll has taken up residence and will let no one near. I want it gone. Do you think you can take care of that?"

Vesemir's eyes narrowed in thought as he carded his horse's reins through his fingers. "Troll removal isn't free," he ground, preparing to mount his horse and ride away if this lord refused his terms. The witcher locked eyes with Lord Raecred, announcing his price, "Four hundred crowns plus expenses and incidentals."

The blond man sneered. "Preposterous! Eighty crowns and a hot meal. Don't be a knave."

"Eighty crowns won't reimburse me for blade oils or armor repairs," Vesemir sneered right back, "not to mention putting my life on the line and the time required to do the job. Three hundred and fifty."

"One seventy-five." Raecred jutted his lower jaw mulishly, braced one hand on his knee and the other on the arm of his chair as he leaned forward.

Vesemir turned to his horse, laying one hand on the saddle as he adjusted his saddle girth. Shrugging, he set a foot in the stirrup and threw over his shoulder, "My final offer is two hundred and eighty crowns plus expenses. Armor and weapons aren't cheap to repair, nor are potions a trifle to brew."

The noble scowled, coming to his feet. "Two hundred and fifty and all repairs to your gear. A bonus of fifty gold if you get rid of that monster before dawn tomorrow."

The witcher put his foot down and turned toward the glowering man. His smile was hideous as he stuck his hand forward to strike the agreement. "You have a deal."

Before the two men had released their clasped arms, Lady Adalyn thrust her way through the gathered onlookers, her face ashen and her voice filled with panicked tears. "Zoe," she gasped, falling into Raecred's arms, "Zoe, my baby! She's gone. No one's seen her in hours!"

The Marcher Lord snarled low, but every servant heard him clearly. "Bring the governess." Casting a grim-eyed look at Vesemir, he commanded, "Forget the troll for now. Find my daughter. Bring her back safe and you shall have whatever you wish." The witcher nodded warily, wondering if Raecred understood what he had just offered.

The witcher passed his horse off to a footman and began his investigation, questioning the cowering governess carefully.

"We were plannin' a picnic for all the tykes in the company, Master Witcher," sniffled the middle-aged woman in a snowy wimple. She wrung her hands as tears coursed down her cheeks. "The little angel was so excited after sitting in that traveling coach all mornin'. Then everything came to a standstill. We could see our new home yonder, but we weren't gettin' any nearer. People started disembarking and the Lord an' Lady set up their seats as you see here." The governess took a deep breath, looking around the roadside as if for inspiration. "Me an' Tillie - that's me nursery aid - set ter rounding up all the little'uns and it were then Lady Zoe went missin'. Fer some time I thought naught of it, she were used to findin' a quiet corner, that one, till everything settled down. I know how fond she were of the picnic idea, though, and she must 'ave toddled off on 'er own."

"How long ago was this?" questioned the witcher.

"I noticed she were gone about an hour after noon. We been lookin' for her since."

Vesemir cast a look toward the pink-tinged clouds of the evening sky. Even a small child could go far in course of half a day.

"You mean to tell me that my daughter has been missing since NOON?" thundered the Lord, white of face and shaking with rage.

"We… I was afeard to tell ye," sobbed the woman, hanging her head in deep shame.

"If one hair of my daughter's head has been harmed, woman, I will exact the price from your hide!" Raecred thundered.

Swiftly intervening before Lord Raecred could have the governess punished on the spot, Vesemir asked, "Can you show me where you last saw Zoe?" The nanny looked fearfully between Vesemir and her liege lord, then nodded. She led the way down the line of grumbling serfs and castle staff, though milling livestock and clucking poultry to a well-appointed carriage.

"We was here, Master Witcher, and last I saw 'er she was perched pretty as a painting on the step with 'er Betsy Doll." The governess swiped the back of her hand over her eyes, looking hopefully at the man. "Please, oh please find 'er. I'll not be able to live wi' meself if anything 'appened to 'er. Naught but Lord Raecred will 'ave me 'ead in any event."

Vesemir just nodded as he inspected the ground. Two armed guardsmen escorted the governess away but the witcher paid them no apparent heed. The ground was scuffed and scoured by more than a dozen feet, but something stood out to his trained eye; a single, shining blond hair. He held it to his nose and inhaled the scent of little girl, apples, and fresh bread. Moving out from the conveyance in ever increasing arcs, he located the shallow impression of a small foot shod in high-quality boots about three hundred yards from the gathered throng. Another tiny print let him on, then another, then a whole line of them strolled into the woods and beckoned him to follow.

She came this way, skipping through the brush without a care, burdened by something heavy on her right and something lighter in her left hand. Vesemir paused and palmed his chin, thinking. Ahead, he found a clearing where the grass had been trampled flat. Examining the ground his brows drew together in alarm. There had been a troll here with the child. It had shambled around the clearing, sat, ate … bread and apples? Then the troll had left, but there was no more trace of the girl. Vesemir scoured the clearing for any signs of violence, but there were none.

"When you've eliminated every possibility, the only thing left is the impossible," he murmured to himself, following the tracks of the troll toward the rushing sounds of the river. Even over the rough, tumbled stones that lined the bank, the witcher had no trouble tracking his quarry and soon found himself facing a moderate cliff. The scent of water and burgeoning spring growth contended with the heady stench emanating from the gaping entrance of a cave. Scowling and breathing through his mouth, Vesemir drew his silver blade and entered the dark cleft, treading as softly as he could. The sudden wail of a child spurred the witcher to haste and he burst into the main cavern heedless of the racket he made.

"Zoe hushes please make! Cry no! See, Zlub Zoe makes eatsgrub," rumbled the great troll, holding a bowl toward the weeping child.

"I want my mama!" sniffled the little girl.

"Needs eats den sleeps we. Goes in morningtime, Zoe Zlub takes, ofwegoes when sun comes back." The troll appeared frantic and helpless before the tiny, howling being.

"I don't think she can eat that drowner stew, Zlub," said Vesemir, seating his silver blade back in its sheath behind his right shoulder. Two heads, one of shining gold, the other as hard as a rock, swiveled to stare at the newcomer. The witcher walked forward slowly. "She's human and it would make her very sick, you know."

"Yous namesiswho! My home this is, yous no invity!" Zlub growled, bristling and turning to face the threat. Vesemir held his hands up in a non-threatening gesture.

"Calm down, big guy. I'm just here looking for her. Her parents are worried." The troll cocked his head to the side, taking in the swords and the man's stance.

"Witchersies is yous. Kills trolls. Yous forto kills Zlub here? You findses Zlubhome hows?" Zlub questioned, his voice dropping in pitch and becoming even more guttural.

Vesemir took in a deep breath, instantly regretting it as his eyes watered from the aroma of Drowner Stew. Shaking himself sternly, the Wolf cleared his throat. "I found you by following your trail from the woods. I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to take Zoe back to her mama."

"You follows Zlub's feetie marks?" The troll stood on one foot, inspecting the toes of the other for a moment, grunting when the witcher nodded.

"I want my mama!" screamed Zoe, interrupting the conversation. Witcher and troll winced at the pitch of her voice.

Zlub nodded, though he looked unaccountably sad. "Zlub Zoe misses, but best witchersy takes back to motherses." The troll gathered the child's basket and blanket, handing it to Vesemir as the witcher scooped the little girl up in his arms. If the Wolf thought it strange that a troll seemed depressed over parting ways with a human child, he kept it to himself. The child was tucked against his chest, watching solemnly as Zlub handed the carefully packed basket over.

"Goods be yous. Father mindses, mother mindses. Maybe comes see Zlubs somedays?" He ruffled the little girl's chair in his large paw before backing away, a suspicious shine in his eyes. Suddenly Zoe lurched out of Vesemir's arms toward the troll.

"Bye Zlub. Thank you for the tea party," she mumbled as the creature caught the tiny child in his large hands and held her gently.

"Zlub happy yous happy." The troll stumped back to his fire and sat down, casting his gaze forlornly after the retreating witcher.

* * *

Zoe's reunion with her parents was tearful, joyful and scolding all at once. Lady Adalyn had all but torn the little girl from Vesemir's arms with a ragged cry of relief. Raecred slapped the witcher on the shoulder, his face suffused with gratitude.

"You have my undying thanks, Master Witcher," murmured the lord. "However, I am deeply concerned that there seem to be a great many trolls in the vicinity, though with a witcher about eliminating them shouldn't be a problem. You DID kill the beast, did you not?"

"He kept your daughter safe when she wandered into the woods, ensured she was warm and dry, handed her to me with no argument … and you want me to kill him?" Vesemir kept his tone neutral, though he wanted to rail at this ignorant man. "The troll is no danger to you or yours. In fact, his cave is some distance down the river. Leave him alone and he'll leave you alone."

Rancred sneered. "Never would have taken a witcher for a bleeding heart. These are monsters, not people."

"I don't kill creatures that aren't a threat. I'll deal with the troll in your castle, but unless I deem it necessary, I'll do so without bloodshed."

"So long as it's gone by morning and well away from here, I don't care," grumbled the blond man, turning his back on the witcher.

Vesemir schooled his face to hide his annoyance and stumped off to find his horse. Wandering through the settling retainers, bondservants, and other vassals settling down as well they could for the night, the witcher nicked a loaf of bread, an apple and some cheese from a table near the smoking remains of a cooking fire on his way out of the throng. He found his mare pawing the stony ground close to carriage and cart horses set out to graze. She looked up at his whistle and came trotting.

"Come on, Nagga. Don't get too comfortable here." The witcher tempted his mare with a few slices of apple in his hand. Showing great interest in the food, she whinnied and accepted the sweet offering. He stroked her velvety nose, relaxing for a few moments in her quiet company. Unlike most people, she made no comment on his value to the world, saving her commentary for more important matters. At the moment, she was demanding another apple.

"I suppose you can stay here while I work for your upkeep, you cheeky wench, but I need some things from my saddlebags." Working quickly, Vesemir carefully extracted a well-worn box and set it on a handy boulder. Examining the contents, he scowled. "Hmm. A little Full Moon, a little Swallow, some Tawny Owl and a bit of Thunderbolt just in case negotiations fail. Top it off with some Ogroid Oil." He tucked the vials one by one into his satchel along with a soft cloth for oiling his silver blade. He closed the lid, then muttered to himself for a moment before opening the case and extracting one more potion. "White Honey, because detoxing without it is miserable. Ok. Think that will do." The young man closed the wooden box and returned it to his saddlebag, giving the horse one last pat on the shoulder before setting his feet toward the looming massif of the fortified castle.

Vesemir chose to avoid the road, not wishing another confrontation with Raecred or an encounter with his wife. Tramping through brush and rocks at night would have been foolhardy for a mere human, but the slivered moon reflected enough light for a witcher to easily choose his path. Half an hour of hiking brought him within a stone's throw of the dry moat and the unmistakable smell of a troll habitation. They didn't set out to be such noisome creatures, the Wolf supposed, but it was in their nature. The Lord and Lady would be displeased at the amount of dung collected under the wooden bridge that led to a tall barbican.

Before stepping foot on the wooden timbers of the drawbridge, Vesemir knelt in the road, applied oil to his sword and secured three of his potions to specially designed holsters on the left shoulder of his gambeson. Satisfied with those preparations, he settled onto his knees, closed his eyes and focused his mind, remembering all he had learned of trolls. An hour later the Wolf rose, dusting off his britches, to stride silently into the keep.

As castles went, this one was on the small side. Built a century past, its purpose was to safeguard the land that marched the border between Gesso and Maecht. One of twenty or thirty bastions situated along either side of the Velda river, the walls of Autumn Tide stood firm with barely any indication that humans had abandoned it for the last quarter century. A quick survey of the sky told the witcher midnight had passed. Dawn was only a few hours away. Vesemir prowled over the drawbridge, listening carefully for sounds of a waking troll. The Wolf scowled as he approached the lowered portcullis.

"If that doesn't just make things easy," he grumbled, pushing ineffectually against the wood and iron-lattice gate. "Not getting in the front door, that's plain." Shoving a hand through his hair, Vesemir took a few steps back and looked up at the dressed stones of the gatehouse. The entire facade appeared to have been recently limed, showing no handholds in the smooth surface. The young Wolf stalked around the outer curtain wall for an hour before admitting defeat and deciding on the direct approach. His pounding on the gate finally yielded results. He smelled her before he could hear her trollish cursing, though as trolls went she wasn't as noisome as most.

"Banging whatsfor yous?" the she-troll grumbled as she shuffled into view. "Hoomansis awaygoes yous. Day nots. Sleepytime is."

"I need to talk with you, madam Troll." With an effort, the witcher kept his voice cordial, non-threatening.

"Talksies yous when day is," she grumbled, blowing a hot breath redolent of old meat and onions. Vesemir gamely did not wrinkle his face in disgust, rather he smiled winsomely at the big creature.

"I wish I could, ma'am. But the owners of the castle are impatient to take residence, they ask kindly you leave so they can move in."

"Castle Mimsey's is. Humanses go find 'nother place. Mimsey here be, five, six, seven moon spins." She had been there seven months? No wonder she felt entitled to the fort. The approach of such a large contingent of humans must have seemed like an act of war to the poor creature! A quick glance at the wheeling stars above told Vesemir he only had another hour to persuade Mimsey to find a new home.

Pasting a forlorn expression on his face, the Wolf sighed, "They don't see it that way, Miss Mimsey, and there's many more of them than there are of you. The castle does belong to them, though." Vesemir could almost hear the gears turn in Mimsy's head

"Why nots they no lives here beforeses?" she argued, a note of petulance tinged with fear in her voice. "Why comes they now? Mimsey comfy is! Warm, dry! Has nice bed and foodsies!"

"They were gone a long time, yes, but it's still their place. How would you feel if you went away for a while and came back to someone living in your home?" Expressive black eyes reflected starlight while Mimsey ruminated over the witcher's question.

"They sent witchersies to kill me with sharp-hurty sticks?" A rumble of threat danced along the undertones of her question.

"They sent me to ask you nicely to let them have the castle. But if you won't go, they'll force you out," Vesemir stated. "If it were up to me, I would be happy to leave you to it, but it's not my decision." He let the words fall in the air, awaiting her response. A wet snuffle followed by a very un-troll-like whimper told him the creature before him was close to tears.

"I goes where? Tells me yous? I goes where?" the weeping troll begged, spearing him with her heartfelt plea. Vesemir hated it when women cried. He never quite knew how to fix things.

"You have any family nearby? I'll help you find a place if not." She shook her head to the negative, heaving a large sigh that feathered through his hair.

"No trollsies heresaboutses," she sniffed.

Vesemir was struck with a sudden notion. Slanting a considering glance at the grieving creature before him, the witcher mulled it over for a moment. It COULD work. Clearing his throat, he began a trifle sheepishly. "Will you trust me to work this out for you, "

* * *

Rancred's sour look on Vesemir's return suggested he was hoping the witcher wouldn't deliver on the contract. Understandably, lord was cranky. Having been awoken on the witcher's return the man had dressed hastily and granted an uncharacteristic early audience. "The monster is gone?" he spit out, squinting at the sun just tipping past the horizon, awaiting the young Wolf's report.

"She's out of the castle and won't trouble you any longer." Vesemir shrugged, scratching at an itchy spot under his chin. "Though you might consider thanking her for the maintenance on the lower bailey walls."

"Yes, well, I'll take that under advisement." Motioning for a servant, Racraed spat on the ground. "I believe our deal was two hundred crowns and repairs to your gear. It doesn't look terribly damaged, however, so I'm sure our blacksmith can have you on your way shortly."

"Our deal was two hundred and fifty crowns, repairs and a fifty crown bonus if I solved your problem by sunrise. Here we are, Lord Raecred. It's just now dawn and you are free to take charge of your keep." Vesemir smiled in a way that sent shivers down Raecred's neck.

"I distinctly recall our bargain being two hundred crowns." The lord settled back in his makeshift throne and returned the witcher's smile with a nasty one of his own.

"This part of the country is interesting, you know?" murmured Vesemir. "Those trolls won't give you any more problems, but they aren't the only monsters in the world." He looked around, nodding as if agreeing with a private thought. "Wasn't more than three months ago there were griffins spotted not far east of here. Endregas, too, favor this environment as well. Do you know what an endrega is, Lord Raecred?" The nobleman shook his head, still glaring at the witcher. "Imagine if a spider and an earwig mated with a lobster. Now imagine the offspring of such a misbegotten pairing were the size of yon draft horse." Vesemir nodded in the direction of the makeshift corral. "That's an endrega, my lord. They are fairly common around here, in fact, and just last year a colleague of mine exterminated a large nest of them near the border crossing at Milling's Cross, just down the road from you."

Rising to his feet, the marcher lord snorted and sneered, "What do I care about these endregas or griffins. Your fairy tales matter not to me."

"That may be, sir. But the word will get out that you shirk on your contracts. You cheat the professionals you hire to do the job for you. It might not be now, it might not be next week or next month. But eventually you will have need of a witcher's services." The witcher's nasty smile became hideous. "Word gets around. Witchers do talk to each other. We share stories of our contracts and we especially share information about who deals honestly with us and who tries to stiff us on payment." Vesemir held Raecred's hostile gaze placidly, allowing his eyes to reflect only the brightening sky to counterpoint his terrible smile.

The master at arms leaned toward his lord to whisper in his ear. The longer the whispering continued the more terrible grew the witcher's smile. Though the two men could not know it, Vesemir heard every sibilant word. Finally, the servant stepped away and Raecred cleared his throat.

"griffins, you say? And endregas?" His nervous hand fluttered across his golden hair. The Wolf nodded. "I do see your point, of course. Two hundred and fifty crowns it is, with a bonus of fifty for accomplishing the task by sunrise. Of course you may apply to my blacksmith for any work you require on your gear." A servant scuttled forward at a motion from his master, presenting Vesemir with a heavy treasury casket. The witcher cast a shrewd eye over the contents and nodded, tucking the box easily under his arm.

"We are done, Vatt'ghern?"

"Not quite. I did retrieve your daughter, safe and sound for you and you did promise me anything I asked." Vesemir had the joy of watching the marcher lord pale slightly.

"Yes, yes. And what would you ask? If it is reasonably within my power to grant, you shall have it." Lord Raecred struggled nobly to hide the tremor in his hands and in his voice.

"Anything I wish, aye?" Vesemir crossed his arms, his mein becoming stern and unforgiving. Strogenborg nodded."Zoe is your first born, your only child." Vesemir noted the rough movement of the lord's throat as he swallowed.

"Aye, my only child, but I hope to have many more and an heir as well."

The Wolf nodded, his face becoming solemn. "I claim your first son that lives till his fifth spring, then. As a witcher, I will never sire a child of my own, yet my legacy must endure. I will return next year, and every year until the child is of age for me to claim."

Raecred turned from the witcher's gaze, his hands balled into fists at his side. He knew the lore, that these monster hunters took children to make into witchers and his stomach churned. "Can you not claim a new steed? I have any number of mares who will be ready to foal in the spring. Or I could give you all the gold I have," The lord's sobbing plea would have swayed a lesser man. "You ask the impossible."

"You offered the impossible last night. There are consequences for reneging on such a bargain. Consequences far more terrible than mere endregas and griffins, my lord. And the child is already claimed, mine by right. Interfere with that at your peril." Raecred's gaze fell as he nodded, acquiescing to the witcher's demand.

"So be it." he conceded, gesturing for a scribe to be brought to seal the bargain.

* * *

Vesemir stretched and rolled to a sitting position, throwing his arms up in a bone-popping stretch that made him groan in pleasure. Grabbing the twin swords resting by his bedroll, the witcher carefully unsheathed first one, then the other. The blades were finely honed and gleamed beautifully in the morning light. He and Raecred's smith had spent the previous morning setting up the smithy in the castle's outer bailey and the man had done himself proud working late into the evening to service steel and silver. Settling their familiar weight across his back, Vesemir gathered his scant belongings together and readied Naga for departure. At last, he kicked dirt over the remains of his campfire and lifted on foot into a stirrup. The ringing call of Lady Adalyn hurrying toward him with her daughter on her hip arrested his motion.

"Master witcher," she puffed, rushing as fast as dignity would allow. "I'm glad we caught you before you left. Zoe has been at me since yesterday to take her back to that, that creature! Please explain to her why that is a very bad idea!" The little girl looked up from her mother's arms and turned tear-bright eyes on the young Wolf. Vesemir sighed and stepped away from his horse.

"I want to see Zlub! He's my friend!" piped the child, her lower lip thrust out mulishly. "I promised I would visit! He won't hurt me."

"Zoe, how many times do I have to tell you, the troll is a monster. He's very dangerous! Why he could have eaten you as soon as looked at you yesterday and only the witcher saved you from that fate!" cried her mother. "Tell her Master Vesemir, tell her how dangerous that, that thing is!"

Vesemir rubbed a hand down his face and regarded the ladies of the keep carefully before framing his reply. "I don't think Zlub is a danger to anyone. Most problems between trolls and humans arise when the troll is rabid, or if they feel their territory is threatened." The wiley Wolf cocked his head in thought, slanting a glance toward Lady Adalyn. "You owe him a debt of thanks, you know. He found your daughter alone in the woods where she might have been attacked by any number of wild animals. There are wolves and bears hereabouts that are not finicky about what they eat."

Adalyn's face turned ashen at the thought. "W-wolves?"

"Aye, and bears." A wry smile tipped at the corner of the witcher's lips as thought occurred to him. "You know, Zlub guarded your daughter and was on the verge of seeking you out to return her when I found them. I'm on my way to see how he goes on. You should come with me to thank him for his service." He grasped his horse's reins in one hand and extended the other toward the noblewoman and her child. "I'll ensure you get safely home before I leave the district."

Zoe bounced in her mother's arms, excitement radiating from her little face. "I want to see Zlub, mama! Let's go with uncle witchy!"

"I … I'm not sure … You promise no harm will come to us?" Tentatively, Lady Adalyn laid her daintily gloved hand in Vesemir's large paw and allowed him to lead her into the woods.

"Uncle witchy. That's a new one!" laughed the Wolven witcher as they breached the wooded boundary between forest and meadow.

Light filtered into the undergrowth, painting the forest floor in swaths of green-gold radiance. Zoe wriggled to be let down and slipped one hand into Vesemir's and clasped her mother's with the other when she alighted on the ground. The tableau struck an ironic cord within the witcher for a moment before he tamped down thoughts of what might have been with vicious determination. Better to enjoy the moment than get caught up on what never could be for a witcher. They passed Zoe's picnic spot and soon found the babbling stream, glinting brightly in the morning sun.

Two lumbering figures splashed along the shore, stooping from time to time to collect some rock or trinket that caught their attention. Most trolls were solitary creatures, though they mated for life when they did mate. Of course that depended on compatibility, and the witcher admitted he knew little about trollish courtship customs. Zlub looked up from handing Mimsey one of his treasures and bellowed a joyful greeting.

"Zlub!" screeched Zoe as she darted away from her mother's frantic grasp and flew into the great creature's arms, hugging him fiercely around his wattled neck. Vesemir caught Lady Adalyn's wrist, preventing her from chasing after her child.

"Witchisies brings Zoe! Times jus ises in yous for weddings!" The troll cocked his head, looking askance at a visibly terrified Lady Adalyn. "Whosis?" That lady looked on wordlessly, in terrified fascination as Zlub gently handled her daughter.

Vesemir stepped up adroitly and greeted the beaming pair of trolls. "I've brought Zoe and her mother to wish you well. Everything ok with you two?"

"Gettings the marrieds weis," grated Mimsey with what passed as a trollish blush.

"Needs someone say the marrywords, though." Zlub nodded solemnly and rubbed his chin. An idea tumbled over his face and he grinned, showing every discolored tusk in his mouth. "Zlub idea has! Witchyman says marrywords!"

Vesemir struggled to remain solemn as both trolls gazed at him hopefully. "Well, I've never officiated a wedding before…"

"Is easy, witchyman," rumbled Mimsey. "Says you 'Zlub you marries Mimsey? Mimsey, you marries Zlub? Ever'body goods? Yous married!'". Mimsey's hands flew up as she shouted this last bit, startling birds from the nearby trees.

"And whens marriediswe, feast has's us!" Interjected Zlub, his bright button eyes lighting with excitement. Zoe giggled as the big troll bounced her in his arms.

"A … a feast … oh … oh ... my …" Lady Adalyn gulped under her breath. Vesemir looked back at her and grinned.

"Don't worry, we won't be eating with them," he murmured for her ears alone. To the trolls, he bowed low and said, "I would be truly honored to officiate your wedding, Zlub, Mimsey."

Even for troll weddings, there were preparations to be made. When Zoe discovered that Mimsey required twenty red stones from Zlub, the child cajoled her mother to scour the riverbank for all they could find. It was afternoon by the time all twenty rocks lay in a cardinal pile in Mimsey's hand. Zlub was wringing his hands and watching his bride-to-be hopefully.

"Theys do? Yous marriesme?" His rough voice was hushed, almost reverent as he awaited the she-troll's answer. Mimsey sorted through her pebbles, grunting here, snorting there as she inspected each one. Finally, she nodded her head and barred her teeth in an unfettered smile.

"They do, Zlub. Yous goods trololo," she breathed, her words tumbling like timbers down a steep hill.

They assembled then, the five of them, at the shore of that babbling stream. The trolls faced north, saying that their traditions held that the first of their kind came from the Dragon Mountains at the top of the world. Zoe stood between the trolls, the twenty red stones cupped in a basket made of her skirt. Lady Adalyn stood next to Mimsey. She was still uncertain of the great beasts, but Vesemir had persuaded her it was the best way to thank Zlub for his care of her daughter.

"Zlub," the Wolf intoned, "do you marry Mimsey?"

"Idoos!" Grumbled Zlub, looking at his mate adoringly.

"Mimsey, do you marry Zlub?"

"Idoos!" A suspicion of tears brightened the she-trolls eyes as she gazed back at her groom.

"Then you are married!" Vesemir shouted, throwing his arms up and laughing as the trolls joined in a loud chorus of joy.

The humans made their excuses and left the happy couple to their feast. As promised, Vesemir escorted Lady Adalyn and Zoe back to the castle gate.

"Thank you, witcher," murmured the noblewoman. "Attending a troll wedding wasn't in my plans today, but it made Zoe happy." She looked adoring at her daughter as the child hugged Vesemir good-by. He straightened and looked at Adalyn a little sadly, a sardonic smile stretching his lips. "Will you ever come this way again, Master Vesemir?"

"Your husband didn't tell you of the deal we struck, did he?" The question was out before Vesemir could throttle it back. What use to upset the woman now?

"No, he wouldn't discuss it with me at all," she murmured.

"Yes, I will be back," he nodded. "When the time is ripe. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry." With those cryptic words hanging in the air, the witcher bowed to the noblewoman and her daughter, mounted his horse and rode away.


	9. Skellige's Privateers

Master Dandelion has been at it again. Culturally misappropriating from Stan Rogers no less!

Skellege's Privateers  
(To the tune of Barrett's Privateers", By Stan Rogers)

Oh, the year was 12 and 68  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
A letter of marque come from the king,  
To the scummiest vessel I'd ever seen,

CHORUS:  
Go plough them all!  
I was told we'd cruise the seas for Nilfgaardian gold  
Draw no swords - shed no tears  
Now I'm a broken man on a Novigrad pier  
The last of Skellige's Privateers.

Oh, Brock on Hindar cried the town,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
For twenty brave men all fishermen who  
would make for him the Fair Siren's crew  
(chorus)

The Fair Siren sloop was a sickening sight,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
She'd a list to the port and and her sails in rags  
And the cook in scuppers with the staggers and the jags  
(chorus)

On the King's birthday we put to sea,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
We were 91 days to Praxeda Bay  
Pumping like madmen all the way  
(chorus)

On the 96th day we sailed again,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
When a bloody great Black'un hove in sight  
With our cracked Ballistas we made to fight  
(chorus)

The Southerner lay low with gold,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
She was broad and fat and loose in the stays  
But to catch her took the Fair Siren two whole days  
(chorus)

Then at length we stood two cables away,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
Our cracked Ballistas made an awful din  
But with one fat bolt They stove us in  
(chorus)

The Fair Siren shook and pitched on her side,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now,  
on Hindar was smashed like a bowl of eggs  
And the Maintruck carried off both me legs  
(chorus)

So here I lay in my 23rd year,  
How I wish I was in Rannvaig now  
It's been 4 years since we sailed away  
And I just made Novigrad yesterday


End file.
